


Soldiers: in-between Wars

by DemonicReader



Series: The WinterIron Files [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, B.A.R.F. | Binarily Augmented Retro Framing, Characters working through trauma, Comic Book Science, Cultural Differences, Extremis Tony Stark, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Romantic Soulmates, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2020-10-24 05:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20700518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicReader/pseuds/DemonicReader
Summary: The escape from the old Hydra scientific facility was a success, but what comes after? Tony, Yakov and his team are about to find out...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We're here with another story, folks! The action, the drama... the romance *insert eyebrow wiggle*... in other words, lets have some fun)  
...and English is still not my Native language... damn ;) so tell me if you find anything out of order, please(

Baron Weiss-Klausevitz said:

"Money would not be an issue."

Tony chose to not believe him, because, at this point, Manfred wasn't baron of anything. The lands that were Prussia had been divided between several countries after the war and only God knew where his familial nest ended up, if it was left standing at all. And the man knew this. He was too smart to _not_ know, but this confidence, this sureness (wherever the hell it was coming from)...

Tony recognized a coping mechanism when he saw one.

They moved by night, rested by day, posed as WWII weapon enthusiasts if asked… robbed a shoe store. Tony considered leaving some money on the counter, but later thought against it, because… what thief leaves money behind? Suspicious!

Now they were resting too. Dietrich and Tishka on the lookout, their pilots tiredly sprawled on their metal flanks. The rest along with Yakov were busy setting up camp. Little M helped Uncle Mitya prepare dinner: something light and easy on the stomach, like bland cream soup. After a night in the saddle, so to speak, Tony was happy to eat anything.

"I fathom you prepared for the worse?"

"In the Wehrmacht you didn't have monthly medical check-ups like you had in the SS, so once I understood what happened, I said to myself, Manfred, if you don't hurry up you'll leave your mate not only miserable, but also very poor when they finally catch you. I wrote to mother, and she transferred all my assets and wages to a Swiss bank. It is probably a small fortune now: 70 years’ worth of interest! No joke…"

"And how would they know that you are, well, you?"

"You don't know Germans very well, do you? We have papers for everything!"

He was right, and Tony didn't know Germans at all. It raised some more questions, though, because now the genius’ curiosity was peaked.

"Did all of you have such a plan B installed?"

Manfred looked around. While they were sitting by the fire conversing, someone set the tents, brought some water, asked Friday to turn on the news…

Carl and Claus were helping Jager off the tank and all but carried him to the sleeping bag already spread out on the ground, laying him back up. The tanker grumbled his thanks. Not far away the brothers Sergeenko were doing the same for Andrei - this display of camaraderie was followed by much more colorful language… no malice, though.

"Jager, I am certain of it. He was an officer, a high ranking one at that. Was invited to join the SS multiple times, but always refused… lived on the front lines, like a monk. A monk with a nicotine addiction, but… still a monk. The others most likely sent their wages home."

"Supported their families?"

"Yes. Sometimes it made a difference," the baron fell silent for a few moments, seemingly gathering his thoughts. "You are an engineer, yes?"

"More of a mechanic, but… yeah, I'm an engineer."

"As an engineer, what is your prognosis on Jager and his Russian? Will they be alright?"

Tony hummed something unintelligible, while narrowing his eyes at the two people in question. He never used Extremis as a scanner before, but there is a first time for everything…

"If we were in my workshop, I could tell you about the situation with 100% certainty, but we aren't, so I am going to speak from experience here… did I tell you that Yakov’s arm is my greatest masterpiece? Well, I am telling you that it _is_… based on the visible scar tissue I can make an educated guess and say that those Hydra doctors butchered their way into their spinal cords and brains… to elicit a faster response? Make them treat the tanks as a part of themselves, like an additional arm or leg… am I making sense?"

The German nodded.

"More than you probably should…"

Tony nodded too, noticing that they started gathering an audience. Surprisingly, there was practically no language barrier between them all: basic English was a thing, as well as basic German and Russian. Hydra patented brand of brainwashing? So the handlers had no trouble ordering their weapons of choice around? Well, at least it was a useful addition.

"Okay, moving on then. The biggest problem with this type of connection is the port connecting the man to the machine… if you stay linked up for long it starts hurting, right?"

"Hurt? It burns…" mumbled Andrei from his perch.

"That's because the wiring they put in you isn't suited for the degrees of strain you are subjecting it to… like you don't use teeny-weeny cables to siphon the might of big-ass electro stations, because they go out in smoke? I don’t get it. These people are supposed to be smart. The human body has multiple types of veins, so why not take a hint from Mother Nature and develop multiple types of power lines? It’s so obvious…" Tony catches himself rambling and pauses, focusing on his surroundings… and sees Yakov smile in the background, a fond and impossibly proud thing. The rest of the guys just stare, eyes wide as saucers full of awe, utter astonishment and a pleasantly surprised ‘huh!’ from those old enough to know how diverse the shades of life can be. Somehow he managed to earn brownie points by being his ‘annoying’ self. “Either way, the wiring is holding… for now, and your serum is trying to fix you up, but should something happen… it’s not something I can fix in the field, so… take it easy? Please?”

Andrei and Rudolph share a look and while the Russian turns sheepish, the German just scowls, before turning to Yakov and admitting:

“We need gasoline… and diesel-oil.”

It's Tony’s turn to stare; it dawns on him suddenly that there is something there he doesn’t understand, because… didn’t they have gas before? How’d they drive them here if they didn’t have gas? Yakov doesn’t seem surprised by the request, but then again it usually takes a lot to surprise him, Tony knows.

“How much?”

“Seven hundred and thirty liters of gasoline, octane number 76 if possible, and seven hundred and ninety liters of diesel fuel – should be enough till the border if we take turns…”

“Hm…” but it wasn’t a ‘no’, and if Tony wasn’t feeling so sandbagged right now, he’d predict that Yasha was totally planning to steal them a cistern or two.

“Are you telling me that you, two crazy people, drove us around – for almost three _days_ – running on your will power alone?! How does that even work?!”

“We… don’t need _traditional_ fuel to… move our metal friends,” Andrei shot a quick crooked grin his way. “It is a trick we learned early on… they used fuel as a means of control, so we learned to bypass…”

“So you control _everything_?” he had to ask, because this… this was big! And Tony had _never_ seen anything quite like this before. “_Every_ nut and bolt?”

“Yes.”

“Man…”

“But it comes with a price,” Andrei sags down with a pained giggle. “Like you said earlier, we burn on the job… rather quickly.”

“Where would we find the needed amount… without actually stealing those cisterns, yes, Snowflake, I know what you’re thinking, my cat-burglar sense is tingling...”

“Ah, dusha moya, you wound me…”

“The band aid is _inside_ the med kit,” but he is smiling and Morgan is giggling from behind her tablet where FLUFF-E is getting a pair of gorgeous front legs, so the mood is still light… especially, when the Soldier rummages through the med kit and finds it… white, with big blue snowflakes…

“Very cute, Antosha.”

“I try.”

It is Gustav who saves the day in the end. During the three days they spent together as a group, the man said exactly five words and the engineer wasn’t even counting. Uncle Mitya wasn’t very talkative either, but his quiet, soft presence compensated for that… Gustav was just plain scary. But scary man Gustav was a trains-man and knew his railroads well. There was a train station and depot not far away from where they would be napping today, functioning before the war, now abandoned, but when Fri using one of the SI satellites zoomed in, they saw those proverbial cisterns. Yes, they had been gathering rust for a couple of decades, but they were there… and they were whole.

“I’m no specialist, but I feel like we should send in a scouting party…”

“Too good to be true, eh?”

“… yes.”

“Then we rest, send party and move out.”

***

They hear it before they see it. The depot is big, has a semblance of acoustics and they (whoever these people were) were loudly chanting in what they believed to be Latin.

It wasn't Latin. It was gibberish.

"Эт-то что за бубуйня!…(What in the world is _this_!..)" Dima Chashin was eloquent as ever. Yakov smirked, before throwing his way a very Steve Rogers style remark:

"За языком следи… (Language!.. )"

"Понял, слежу. (Got it, will do). Но… дядь Яш! (But… Uncle Yasha!)"

"Сатанисты какие-то. (Some kind of Satanists.)"

"Дьяволопоклонники, что ли? (Devil worshipers?)" asked a Marat-shaped shadow from his right. “Вот те раз… (Well, I’ll be…)”

"Что-то вроде того… (Something like that…)"

“Что делать будем? (What are we going to do?)” a new whisper, from above this time, with a distinctive German lilt; Carl… or Claus.

“We take the fuel… and dispose of any obstacles we might encounter. These people do not deserve our mercy… they aren’t people at all, despite their human-like appearance. We quietly move in, we quietly move out…”

“Civilians?”

“There may be none. But if there are… we help them. Understood?”

A series of affirmative grunts rolled over him like a wave and they left their hiding places over and under an over-turned freight car, silent like in wraiths in the night. They didn’t have any firearms on them, but in this particular context… they weren’t needed. Yakov had his trusty knife, Carl pillaged a fire axe from the base, Dima whined until Andrei gave him a wrench from Tisha’s tool kit... his sunshine laughed when he saw them gear up, said that it looked like they were surviving in a zombie-apocalypse.

Well, _The Walking Dead_ series was next on their ‘recommended’ list, so the reference wouldn’t be misunderstood for long.

They entered the building from three sides: Claus and Marat through the roof, Carl and Artyom took the rear entrance, while Dmitriy and Yakov crept in through the front one. The chanting got louder, now several voices could be distinguished: three men and a woman, where the woman sounded sluggish, pretty much moaning the words, not singing them… she sounded drugged.

They followed the voices, hiding in the shadows of old trains and rusty railroad cars, and it wasn’t long before a new detail entered the picture: they smelled blood in the air. Dima’s eyes went wide, Yakov’s face turned into an emotionless mask, and somewhere over their heads and in the back, near the fuel cisterns (their primal objective) they could hear breaths hitch and curses being caught behind teeth, because… the others smelled blood too.

They never worked together. Not as a combat team. They barely knew each other in terms of a non-combat team – just like two weeks of training can’t make a decent sniper, three days of traveling in one group doesn’t make virtually unfamiliar people compatible by default. But… they were military people, trained, first and foremost, to follow orders and it saved them in the end.

Behind several rows of crates, that were significantly newer than the rest of the place, still smelling of freshly cut wood, stood three figures clad in black robes: two were swaying, absolutely submerged in their mystical gibberish, while the third one stood absolutely still, holding an ancient dagger, carved out from what looked like a solid slab of stone. All the space around them was covered in symbols, drawn out using blood and white chalk, black candles placed in strategic points of the star shaped figure…

…the altar was soaked in it: all red sticky liquid, white powder and mounds of black wax.

They did this ritual regularly.

The woman… the _girl_, fifteen or fourteen, lay there tied down by her arms and legs, the same symbols that covered everything in the vicinity her only clothing. A natural redhead, freckles standing out on pale skin in an array of orange spots, jade-green eyes… she even could have been considered beautiful in that interesting, unconventional way, if she wasn’t so… not there. His sunshine would have been more frank about her situation and call her ‘doped up to the gills’... anything to keep her still.

Whatever these… people were doing, it required a sacrifice. The hands of the one holding the dagger started glowing in a sickly purplish light, and they, regardless of their experience and origin, suddenly understood that these are no ordinary devil loving perverts. These are magic users of unknown power wielding a magical artifact!

Dima’s eyes are full of silent question…

_Do we stop?_

Yakov silently shakes his head.

_No._

They creep closer and wait… not for that proverbial moment that never comes when needed, no. Yakov preferred to make his ‘moments’ himself. When the chanting reached its culmination and the glow around the stone dagger intensified and impossibly _darkened, _he sent Dima with his wrench to the side and stepped out into the light, simultaneously writing away one of the symbols with the sole of his boot. The air around him gives an almost electric crack, the glow around the dagger significantly dims and the mage (personally, the Soldier would call him ‘колдун’, which generally means a low key sorcerer; he has rather high standards nowadays, thanks to Doctor Strange and Master Anwar) is all but kicked out of his trance. The next thing that happens – Yakov is side-stepping a fireball. It’s no bigger than a baseball, misshaped and resembles a messy ball of yarn… not impressive, not impressive at all. The mage, however, doesn’t go for a new one. He changes his grip on the artifact like he’s planning using it in combat and charges…

Stone meets winterium (yes, his sunshine finally settled for a name for the adamantium based alloy he and Mister D created together; they even patented it under the SI logo along with Tony’s starkium, ) and sparks fly. From the corner of his eye he watches how his team is fairing…

Claus and Marat jump one mage, Carl and Artyom jump the other, while Dima grabs the half-conscious girl and drags her away from the commotion. They didn't discuss roles, didn't have the time, really, but, as it turned out, they read each other just fine without…

Marat and Claus only have their bare hands to rely on, so the mage they confronted thinks he got an easy deal. He starts a quick chant in that pseudo Latin, making frantic tickling gestures with his fingers…

The spell doesn't go off, though, because Claus with the grace of a big tropical snake dashes low, aiming for the knees, and tackles him to the ground, where Marat is waiting with a wooden crate yanked out of the nearest barricade. Wham! But that doesn't kill him, so the former sailor grabs a sharp piece of board and finishes him, vampire hunter style. Must have been the right thing to do, because the body beneath the stake gives out some violent twitches and… ages. Rapidly: from thirty to one hundred and thirty in two seconds. Claus recoils, hissing curses in German. Marat doesn't say anything, but the way he spits on the remains says it all.

Carl and Artyom are having difficulties, because their opponent saw his colleague die and isn't keen on following. He conjured a whip out of ice and is surprisingly good at making the soldiers keep their distance. But the German has an axe, Dima kicks his wrench towards Artyom and they make it work.

The whip lashes out, aiming for the Russian, Carl intervenes, catching the razor sharp end with the metal handle… and screams bloody murder, because it's like having your hands scalded with liquid nitrogen. The mage smiles, satisfaction radiating off him in waves; he always liked hearing them scream…

Artyom, having crept behind him in the chaos of battle, hits him on the head with the wrench. He doesn't hold back. Super-soldier strength makes the head fly off the neck like a golf ball… and the wrench is bent in two. The headless corpse that hits the floor is more mummy than man.

Dima takes care of the girl: tries to be friendly, rambles about everything and nothing in particular in Russian, while dressing her in his shirt, tries to wipe away the symbols… his eyes, though, are dead set on the last mage left standing, and inside them rage burns…

The stone dagger is not meant for fighting. It is a ritualistic instrument, and for some strange reason Yakov thinks that it was meant for more. It lasts but a moment, those few seconds, that are needed to catch the magical blade with metal fingers and let it slide away, while it tries to bite into the metal palm, and he knows witchcraft when he sees it. It's owner is surprisingly fast, surprisingly skilled and his skill is also surprisingly familiar…

Then he remembers. The battle of Borodino. French soldiers crawling up the earthy walls of their fortified positions like roaches, dressed in white and blue uniforms which lost their imperial shine long ago. But dirty or not, an officer is still an officer… and they had a duel over the last surviving cannon. Style and finesse against brutal efficiency, sword against a heavy steel rod you clean the cannon's barrel with.

Yakov was gravely wounded, loosing blood with every deep breath, but that French didn't live particularly long either… he falls, shot in the chest point blank. He remembers hearing their cannon fire another three times before everything fades to black and death finally claims him.

This guy and that French - it's not that they have similar styles, they have _the same _style.

"Что ж тебе спокойно в могиле не лежалось, упырь проклятый… (Couldn’t lie quietly in your grave, could you? You God damned ghoul…)"

This makes the mage pause and pull back. The dagger is still raised, battle ready, but the fight itself was slowly leaving him…

"English?"

"... English."

"I saw you die. In 1812."

"The one with the pistol?"

"No. We fought near the cannon."

That makes the mage lower the dagger altogether. Apparently, Yakov with a ramrod for a weapon made a striking impression.

"But… I killed you."

"Yes, you did."

"Then how… ah! You are bonded," the mage falls silent for a few moments. "And you are not going to ask what lead me to this kind of life?"

"No. Whatever it was it was done against your will… or was it?"

"... I was twenty-two. I wanted to live."

"By sucking the life out of somebody else?"

"You would not understand…"

"I was nineteen. But, yes, it _is_ a choice every man has to make on his own…"

This time when they clash there are no sparks in the air. Brutal efficiency against style and finesse…

1:1

***

Tony tinkers. They're parked two kilometers away from the depot, waiting for the scouts to return. Nothing they haven't done before, but the bond is behaving all stormy, they notice something flash through the narrow windows and… Tony tinkers, because while he tinkers he can't rush off and do something stupid.

The golden deer and the dark-grey metallic puzzle piece. Something symbolic was lurking under the surface… he could almost feel the weight of the golden bracelet on his right wrist and the weight of Volk’s hand on his left shoulder… his hands were too clumsy to grasp it though.

Tony turned to Morgan, the resident expert, with his problem.

"What do you think, sweet pea, can we integrate this into this?"

Morgan furrows her brows, deep in concentration, while carefully weighing the small golden deer in one hand and the significantly larger piece of metallic plating in the other. Yes, Tony still wears the little thing, despite his mate living through two arms and a body swap. He _is_ sentimental like that and his Snowflake is the same, keeping memorable pieces of their intertwined lives in glass cases.

"Good metal… old, though."

"Can you guess where it's from?"

She gives him a side-eye, exasperation and amusement half-by-half. He grins back, not offended in the least. And then his girl says:

"Uncle Bucky lets me look at his arm _all_ the time. I'm his mechanic."

"Isn't Shuri?"

"Wakanda is far away. Plus she is a Princess. Busy-busy. And Dad already had blueprints on his private server… he never got to craft it, because… because."

Tony could guess. He may have blueprints for an arm hidden away too. It’s just… nobody really asked him! No one thought he'd want to apologize too… like he blows off metal arms with direct neural links to brains all the time… no big deal…

“How’s Bucky-bear doing by the way? I never asked…”

“He is… sad,” Morgan starts tinkering too: carefully turning Tony’s two precious heirlooms this way and that. “Ever since Uncle Steve turned old and gave up his shield in Mister Wilson’s favor, he is sad… he is losing his best friend to time… there are no more Avengers, you know? So he and Mister Wilson, the new Captain America, go on mission after mission after mission… but for arm repairs he comes to me.”

_…losing his best friend to time…_

God, they sure were a sorry bunch… in every universe, it would seem.

“How did he manage to bust up vibranium…”

“No, silly!” Morgan giggles, then turns the parts of the future pendant just so… and beams, because something must have clicked. “It helps him be calm…"

“Oh?”

“They are all working with SWORD, and Director Hill is very strict when it comes to crime fighting. I think Uncle Bucky is over-stressed: too many missions, too little rest… and SWORD doesn’t have mechanics – they only have… technicians.”

The feeling of being sandbagged did a comeback. Viciously. They may have beaten Thanos, but at what cost? Tony Stark died, Steve Rogers… wasn’t a super-soldier anymore, Wilson and Barnes had to bear the consequences, Barton must be retired, what happened to Nat he didn’t know, Pepper was in a coma, Happy – bed-ridden… Fury – retired?

“He is having relapses isn’t he? Back to being the Soldier…”

“… yeah,” M gives him a sad little smile. “But it is okay… he would never hurt me. We don’t have a bond like you and Uncle Yasha, but…”

“You understand each other.”

“No one else really tries to… and there is also the fact that his arm is utterly _gorgeous…_”

“Ha!”

“…he teaches me Russian. No one knows, and we don’t tell anyone.”

“You feel like you should keep it a secret?”

“They don’t have super-heroes to spare – they can’t lock him up, but if they do… I’m building FLUFF-E and we’re busting him out.”

That’s his girl! He was proud of her, and his alternative self would be for sure if he were alive.

“You know, Button, it just occurred to me… they’ll probably try to run that time machine and follow you.”

“Yeah, but it won’t work.”

“Oh, you little minx… you thought about everything!”

The girl shrugged, the first flashes of the future Stark heir already showing through.

“Well, I told Uncle Bucky I’ll be coming back. You need to stick to your word…”

***

“Исторический вы человек, Яков Игоревич (Stories sure love you, Yakov Igorevich)!” said Andrei Ivolghin when they, after rolling into the depot, saw the crates, the candles, the symbols, the blood and the bodies. “Ушли за горючкой, а нашли черт знает что… (Went to find fuel, found some hell of a thing instead…)”

“История моей жизни (The story of my life)…” Yakov gives him a wry smile. “Go check if our findings suit our purposes…”

“Rude, Yakov Igorevich, rude…” but obediently Andrei wanders off managing to look formidable, despite his gate tilting heavily to the right. His busted knee. The serum healed it, but the limp stayed… absolutely psychosomatic.

His sunshine raises a quizzical eyebrow, watching him go.

“I don’t get him…”

“Oh?”

“Is he being respectful towards you or just being a troll?”

That makes him smile.

“I think… a bit of both? You see, dusha moya, they are like us: old souls. That is why they survived when others did not, but… we are still older. It makes us kindred spirits, yet not.”

“There is a hierarchy among soulmates too?!” Antosha is shocked.

“Nothing written. Bonds like ours, the ones that stretch across centuries, are extremely rare, so no one bothered.”

“Huh,” Tony turned thoughtful. “So, just to sooth my scientific itch, when exactly did they meet?”

“It was after the Battle on the Ice, 13th century. Jager was one of the surviving Teuton knights, which were taken prisoner. Andrei, a member of Prince Alexander Nevsky’s armed force at the time, was appointed his guard. You can imagine how well it went, when they discovered their marks correspond…”

Different mindsets, different cultures, different languages…

Different everything.

“But since they’re together, and kept coming together… something must have clicked?”

“Yes, because when the other four prisoners chose to return home, he chose to stay. He chose to stay every time…” Yakov fell silent for a moment. “How is the girl?”

Tony turns serious.

"Taking a page out of my friend Bruce's book, I'm not that kind of doctor, but speaking from personal experience I'd say they gave her Rohypnol with a dash of something else. Rohypnol is popular with rapists and kidnappers, because it makes you sleepy and you can't fight back… the guys said she sang along?"

"Yes."

"Could be hallucinogens of some sort, but I'm thinking light narcotics. You know, the ones that are sold in night clubs to make the night brighter? I saw a half smeared club stamp on her wrist… that's were they took her, probably. I had Fri go through the missing persons reports from the police departments in the vicinity… no new ones filed, so no one noticed she disappeared."

"The stamp is fresh?"

"Yeah."

"Then her friends must think she is partying hard somewhere…"

"Well shit…" Tony frowned. "The sensible thing would be to just leave her at the nearest hospital, but if we do that… we're busted."

"You'll stick out like a sour thumb, either way, Stark, all thanks to your face being in every TV-set from here to München," they were joined by Rudolph and Manfred. "The fuel is adequate, but it will take quite some time to pour it from the cisterns into the fuel tanks with only one garden hose and no pump. We have time to take the girl to the nearest town - Gustav said it is only ten kilometers north from here if you follow the tracks - and do it more or less casually."

"And you think you'll stick right in…"

"We look Native enough," here Rudolph gives him a crooked smile; it pulls on the scars on the right side of his face, giving him an almost demonic look. "And speak German with no accent."

"Good point! But take Friday with you - two young handsome men cruising the city without a smartphone? Impossible!"

The starkphone exchanges hands, ending up with Manfred.

"Do these little things really play such important parts?"

"You have no idea! Some people carry their entire lives in there: from family photos and grocery lists to bank account and health insurance numbers. Everything is online! Even dating… and sex."

"Sex through the phone?!" Manfred is baffled. Rudolph just raises an eyebrow, mostly unimpressed. "Whatever for?"

"Well, if your sweetheart is far away and you feel lonely, and the only way you can talk to one another is through phone calls…" Tony felt odd and awkward explaining such things. Yakov wasn't helping at all: stoic on the outside, he was laughing his head off on the inside, if the bubbly amusement in the bond was any indication." Oh, for fuck's sake… you did letters in your time, didn't you? The same damn thing."

"Ah! I got it…"

"Thank God, Mary and Joseph! When are you planning to hit the tracks?"

"There is a railcar in the depot. No walking needed."

That settled it.

***

"Are you planning on keeping that?"

The Soldier followed his sunshine's gaze to the stone dagger now resting behind the leather straps on the outside of his left boot.

"For now. If we leave it, something like this might happen again."

"So you want to show it to a… specialist."

"They will never agree with each other on the matter who is to blame: the mage or the artifact? If they know what it is at all…"

Tony inched closer, the pale blue light from the semi-covered arc reactor reflecting in his honey-browns eyes, dancing along the golden lines in them. Curious.

"You felt something!"

"Magic, dusha moya, is a strange thing… irrational. This little piece of flint was stolen from a historical museum in Peru… an Ancient Mayan relic, used by Mayan priests in their rituals," Yakov huffs out a laugh and brings his sunshine close; they fall together like puzzle pieces, back to chest, head to shoulder… comfortable."They used the energy from the sacrifices to call rain…"

"Considering the climate in Peru…" Tony cuddled into his mate more. "Additional moisture was always welcome?"

"Hm."

"How'd it end up with this disaster of a group?"

"Like most artifacts do: through collectors of ancient relics, until someone magically gifted enters the picture…"

"And now it belongs to you, Snowflake. Feel like calling some rain?"

"Not particularly. You?"

"Personally, I'd call a cheeseburger, but alas…"

Yakov leans in and smiles - Tony can feel it bloom against the side of his neck.

"... I'm glad it was you."

"Even after I keep making you wait on me every time?"

"Worth it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee, spies and a dash of emotional crisis...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen the movie 'The Edge' by A. Uchitel, watch it...  
https://sovietmoviesonline.com/adventure/592-kray.html (the version with English subs)
> 
> My fascination with steam locomotives stems from here)

"How is he?"

Manfred taps into that special brand of stillness that only accomplished snipers seem to poses for several odd moments, listening to something beating deep within…and smiles that secretive little smile only a soulmate can bring out.

"Shocked, furious, happy, exhausted… happy again, furious again… Oh, Rudy, when we see each other he is going to hit me _so_ hard, I can already sense it…"

Rudolph Jager smirks, puffs out a small cloud of smoke from the cigarette a pack of which Manfred insisted they buy - with Stark's money, which made both of them uncomfortable for obvious reasons - and muses:

"And to think he nearly blew your brains out through your own sniper scope…"

The former Standartenfuhrer is also a very straight-forward kind of man, but… Manfred wouldn’t have him any other way, because it was his _boldness_ that saved the most precious thing the baron could ever own – his bond with his Heart. He dunked the Prussian into that metaphorical ditch that was his newly discovered fated mate, a god awful enemy sniper almost ten years his junior, who was also a Russian born _Jew, _enough times for him to accept it…

_Do you want him?_

_Yes._

_Then fight for him, stay alive for him… and one day you **will** meet._

Later Weiss-Klausevitz learned that the Rudy's own fated mate, some Russian soldier, was in a German prison camp, and that the fragile candlelight that was their bond was just that – a fragile candlelight...

"Russian people _are_ very intense. You, of all people, should know…"

"I do. That is why I am ‘very intense’ as well. Look, they noticed her. Finally…"

The town Gustav led them to, was indeed small, and they instantly felt like home, because the last time something changed around here was maybe during the French revolution. It was quite disturbing: made them forget _where_ they were, _when_ they were…

So baron Weiss-Klausevitz, the seasoned sniper, suggested they do their best to blend in, treat this like a mission of sorts, hence the cigarettes, the coffee inside the coffee shop across the street from the town hospital and the wait. Miss Friday made sure they remained virtually invisible to the hordes of video cameras that were now _everywhere_, so they also had time to take in this new strange disturbing land that was once so very familiar…

A punch to the gut would have been kinder.

They soldiered on.

Manfred with Miss Fri's help immersed himself into the local newspaper, the electronic version of which one might read from his smartphone, reciting the parts that baffled him aloud for Rudolph to hear. Some thought them to be a couple, others - Bundeswehr on leave, because there was a NATO base nearby and why wouldn't two courageous soldiers want to spend their time off duty here? Well, thought Rudolph, puffing out another cloud of smoke, it could have been worse.

Same sex soulmate couples were no longer shunned. A plus! People claiming to be mates with their dogs? Overkill…

XXI century Europe reminded them of Ancient Rome, a step away from spiraling into chaos, simultaneously grand and decadent.

The bell over the entrance to the shop makes a soft 'Ding!' and something in the quiet atmosphere of the small establishment irreversibly changes…

The pair that enters is built out of contrasts. He is short where she is tall, he is broad where she is lean, his hair is of a color one might call 'dirty blond' while hers is 'flaming red', but what always gives away a killer are the eyes…

His are hidden under sunglasses. She doesn't bother.

The soldiers watch them pass their table and settle at the bar: Rudolph - from the corner of his eye, while shaking the ash off his cigarette into the glass ashtray, Manfred – over the phone screen while continuing being obnoxious, but it's 90% theatrics now.

"I don't get it… of all places Stark could hide in, why here? It is fairly nice, but he'll go nuts here in an hour."

"It’s not about him. It's about the girl."

"You mean, kids needing a stable environment to grow? Well, can't argue with that…" the man takes a sip of coffee the redhead ordered for them. "M-m, the good stuff…"

"It is… disturbing."

"To see him with a kid that isn't Spider-boy or to think of him as a good father?"

"Both."

"You can't be always right, Nat. Sometimes you got to be wrong."

"When I am wrong, Yastrebok (little hawk), bad things tend to happen… I think the Soldier took him to _that_ facility. He is always three steps ahead, acts according to information we have no idea exists…"

"Frustrating, isn't it?"

"Very."

"Maybe we should… make a visit of our own to that spooky place?"

Cold dread starts to pool low in Jager's stomach at the mere thought of someone _else, _an _intruder_, setting foot inside the temple of his suffering. Manfred's antics were by now 100% theatrical, because he, at his core, was no different. They were taught to be strong, to be smart, to be rational, to know authority and to follow authority… Feelings? No, for they make you weak. But you are alive, so you cannot go against your nature and stop feeling altogether, so this weakness is _guarded_: profoundly and utterly.

Stark wasn't like _them_. He came with Yakov, which meant he _knew. _And he fought for them, because he _knew…_

… complicated.

"It's impossible," there was regret in the woman's voice. "It's gone…"

The blond chokes on his coffee.

"Gone?! How can it be gone?! It's a fucking mountain!"

"No, the mountain is there. The base is gone, scrubbed clean to the stone. The only thing that hints it was something man-made and not a chain of natural caves is the shape of the caverns," the woman pauses, face a neutral mask. "Do you think… he found what he was looking for?"

The blond turns serious.

"Even if he did… Guess, we will have to find out like everybody else..."

Как интересно все складывается (how very interesting everything is adding up), as his Andryusha would say. Tony Stark told them what really brought them into those mountains on day two of their march towards the Eastern border and the man had been as frank as a brick to the head…

There was an alien army coming towards Earth, so all hands on deck. Humanity is closing its ranks, gathering heroes and hero teams to defend the planet. New York was already attacked twice, Hydra was still there somewhere, heads hissing in the darkness, and they were experiencing a severe case of sticks-in-wheels from the very organization that was supposed to help them. In other words, Stark was pissed, but what truly drove him up that proverbial wall was when his friends were thrown into this under-the-rug power play… used as leverage… simply _used. _These people, mused Rudolph rather grimly, did not know how lucky they were that the genius, sometime before he came out as Ironman, decided to play by the rule book…

But there was something else there too. Regret… pools of it… puddles you can step over easily. Somewhere along the way they lost Stark's trust, these mysterious agents… and in Stark's world trust was maybe not everything, but certainly a _lot_.

The former Wehrmacht officer finished his cigarette in one decisive inhale and broke the leftover butt in the ashtray. Manfred pocketed the phone. They left the shop, after gracing the tip jar with a few bills.

They both felt the redhead’s gaze on them… sharp eyes tracking subtle movements like a cat sizing up its prey. Then she saw the scars on the side of his face and that assessing gaze turned interested…

Sorry, Fraulein, I don't swing your way.

***

"Nat and Clint, huh?" Tony wasn't overly surprised. "Looking for Morgan?"

"They seem to think she is yours."

"Well, she is. Technically. Details!" the engineer shoos the question away like an annoying fly. "And they are watching the hospital... why?"

"If you were a normal parent you would have showed up there eventually," Uncle Mitya offered him a soft smile and a sound explanation. "Children can be a handful: they catch colds, eat questionable things and fall from unexpected places."

"Oh, I get your drift…"

"The next best place is the school. And your home, which you do not have, so they are watching all the town's hotels…"

"They're lucky it's pocket-sized."

"But you can rent a room, an apartment or even a house," Uncle Mitya shook his head in false sympathy. "Stretched thin, yes?"

Tony thinks he likes this man.

"Very."

"Do we change our plans?" Rudolph Jager was all business as usual, although Tony could sense something else hiding under that tone. The German officer was, for the lack of better word, _growling_ inside.

"Nope! We adjust them."

And just like that he comes up with one of his so called 'crazy' plans…

Steve hated his 'crazy' plans. Every time Tony started talking about his ‘crazy’ plans, he got that part pained, part annoyed, part bewildered expression and Tony knew he was about to be shot down. Sure, his ideas didn't come with a set of instructions, and yeah, they needed a bit of polishing to shine in the right light…

The rest of the team usually went with Steve's opinion. Even if they thought the genius's plan was interesting and unorthodox. Subconsciously, when he started talking this time, he expected to face the same treatment… or mistreatment? Ugh, semantics…

But Yakov’s men weren't Steve's men. They had their own set of values.

Tony spoke of logic, and his logic told him that… they were at a railroad station! And if they didn’t want to venture into that agent infested town, they didn't have to, because, again, they were at a railroad station! There were _trains_ here and railroad tracks going in a number of directions, including East. More than seventy years of abandonment, you say? Still worth a shot at it and that infamous German quality! Plus, it would be infinitely faster than the way they were going now.

Gustav, the resident trains-man thought about it, and nodded:

"Doable."

While a startled Tony was still processing what just happened (the fast agreement part of his answer was unexpected), the man did a confident 180 and marched out of the depot, strides wide and full of intent. The rest scrambled to follow, and about ten minutes later they were standing in front of a… shed. A very big shed, which was nailed shut. Yakov made short work of that, his metal arm the ultimate instrument of destruction, and when he and Gustav pried open the doors, there he stood…

A genuine mother-of-all-trains steam locomotive. The colors were faded under lair upon lair of dust, dirt, cobwebs and in some places rust, but he still looked imposing as hell. Tony for a second felt giddy, standing in front of all this raw mechanical power and couldn't wait to find out how this fine machine worked.

Gustav's next words made him sober up a bit.

"While I and Mitya check if Oldman is alive, you must look for transport platforms. Good, if you find one that can hold both tanks. If you don't, we will need two. To drive them up the platforms, we will need to construct loading gangways and to secure them there we will need chains. Also… logistics. The station is abandoned, so it could be cut from the network. If this is true, then we are not going anywhere. This must be checked."

"... Oldman?"

Gustav's answering nod was slow and looked almost pained.

"I was thirteen when I first set foot inside a train depot. My grandfather was a train engineer, my father was a train engineer… I became an engineer. At age nineteen, I was the youngest one on staff, so, to compensate, the depot chief assigned me to the oldest locomotive available…"

"This one, huh?"

"Yes," something akin to a real smile brightened up the man's face. "Rickety bucket of bolts… I fixed him up! And no one made fun of us anymore…"

Tony nodded, an odd feeling of deja vu falling over him like a blanket. A boy and his train… a boy and his robot… he could relate. Gustav continued, smile gone making space for familiar grimness:

"We worked with coal most of the time: delivered empty cars to the loading docks by the mines, carted off full cars to a number of steel making factories in neighboring regions. Seventy five tons is nothing… we faired more."

“Okay. I trust you with this. Do you trust me to do the logistics?”

“You have the tools, the knowledge and the helpers – go, do what you do best.”

And Tony and Morgan set to work, starkphone and starkpad their gateways into the world of the virtual. Maps, topography, records - a multilayered cake, but the engineer needed the clearest picture he could get...

This station was a part of a major transportation network in the pre-war days, a key piece of the region's economy which in turn swirled and twirled around the local coal mines. People here (for generations!) either mined coal or sold coal or worked the railroad - when it appeared - transporting coal. When the German war machine led by the Nazi government turned its iron snout towards Europe, the workload around here only doubled...

No fire - no steel!

Soon after the war ended the coal deposits in the local mines, that were essential for the industrial lives of the station and town, dwindled and with it everything else dwindled too. You wouldn't find the place on modern maps. The railways were practically invisible under all the grass that had grown over them over the years and the trains? Slowly succumbing to rust…

They were lucky. Several of the old lines were still usable, ghosting through several borders to their destination. Kept as a landmark? Honestly, Tony didn’t know.

From the corner of his eye the engineer watched the others work. It was unexpectedly interesting, because they treated the locomotive like an old friend, an iron stallion that needed to be fed, watered and brushed clean, casually, with respect and zero fascination. Because, for them, this wasn't a historical exhibit - _this_ was a part of their day to day lives.

He sort of understands how Steve must have felt, torn out of his reality like that. Didn't make him less of a dick, though…

"Are we riding a Choo-Choo, Daddy?" Morgan’s eyes were glowing with excitement. She never ridden a train quite like this before, and if he could make an educated guess she never ridden any train at all. Ever.

Tony hid a smile.

"Guess we are, sugar muffin! It’ll be loud, dirty, smelly… in other words, fun as hell!"

"Neat!"

"But Uncle Gustav has to resurrect him first…” and Tony, being an accomplished mechanic, who restored his fair share of old cars himself, knew it would be difficult. They weren’t in any form of workshop here, so should something blow up…

Gustav, judging by the hard line of his mouth, was well aware of the possibilities, perhaps, even more than Tony was. It was _his_ train, after all. He shared a look with Uncle Mitya (the way they seemed to be able to communicate without words was fascinating and a little freaky), and then they proceeded to check every pipe, vent, cog and wheel. Jurgen and Dima were sent to inspect the main water reservoir, Rudolph and Andrei – to look for suitable transport platforms, because they were the only ones who knew what they looked like, others – to scavenge for fuel: wood, cloth… anything and everything burnable. Yakov became their lookout man by climbing the highest point of the main station building, the clock tower, with a set of binoculars…

… and Friday looked after them all from outer space.

Domestic!

Yet not.

_Civilian Tony Stark is in turmoil. Reasoning: unknown._

_Negative. Civilian Tony Stark is doubting. Position in group: uncertain._

_Designation change: 'Civilian Tony Stark' to 'Fool'. Position in group: leading technological expert. Pilot One agrees._

_Pilot Two agrees. Turmoil: unnecessary._

_Suggestion: optical sensor diagnostics?_

_Suggestion approved._

Tony wants to laugh, because… guys! But they worried about him and his place inside the ‘pack’, and it made him feel warm and fuzzy inside.

_Thanks, Dietrich, Tisha._

_Gratitude unnecessary. Future brings missions of extreme difficulty… failure is unacceptable._

_Oh, you read about the UN meetings… and the Accords Council._

_They are going to judge us…_

_What right do they have to judge us?_

_If they are going to judge somebody, it’s going to be Sunny. He was an accomplished Hydra assassin, went on missions with the Soldier and solo… did he go willingly or was he forced, is another question. But now… it is a question we have the answers to. It’s going to be messy…_

_A sequence of serious debates is highly advisable._

_Noted._

Tony couldn't agree more, but they needed to get out of the woods first, so... he did what he always did in tricky situations!

He called Pepper.

"Pepper, my moon and stars! How are things on the home front? Oh… and I sent you the documents from our Japan deal. Did you get them?"

"Sure did…" his brilliant CEO sounded very CEO-ish: like she'd been wrangling panicky share holders all day. "Also I have sent a missive to New Asgard - our Japanese partners seemed very interested in the trees they developed… when were you going to tell me?"

"About what?" the engineer is instantly on alert.

"That you have illegitimate children hidden somewhere!"

"Morgan is totally legit, Pepper-pot! Because she's yours."

"...mine?!"

"Yep! And mine. Ours. She's ours. Before you ask… no, she is not a genetically modified clone I created using our DNA in the depths of my workshop. I wouldn't betray Snowflake like that..."

"...okay. I believe you."

"You do?"

"When Yakov is involved you just can't seem to lie, Mister Stark," there is a smile in her voice, though. "At all."

Huh, thought Tony to himself before continueing:

"It is a interdimension thing. We should ask Strange about it later… but seriously, how are things?"

Pepper sighed.

"We had another visit from SHIELD. They came with an official order from the state judge, claiming they were looking for Mister Kotov, but when I read what was actually written in that document… what has Mister Kotov to do with Chitauri technology?"

"Not a thing. Fury just thought I sent her to New York…"

"So they were after the girl?" she was shocked… and puzzled. "Why, in the name of all heavens?"

"Oh, Pepp, you have no idea…" and he told her what he and Yakov found out. Then he told her what and who they found in the old Hydra research facility and after that he told her what they were doing now. Miss Potts was silent for a very long moment, and the sound of that silence was ominous… he will have to be on his best behavior for a very, very, _very _long time. And buy her several pairs of killer shoes.

"What help do you need?"

Tony smiled. If the Goddess of SI was on their side, it meant success. Usually.

"Okay, here's what I've been thinking…"

From the corner of his eye he could see Morgan listening in to their conversation, eyes wide and looking like a startled mouse. Yes, baby-girl, that could have been your mom…

But Fate chose differently.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memory lanes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author, prior to writing anything from a German or Soviet WWII veteran's perspective read some memoirs written by actual German and Soviet WWII veterans, plus (bless YouTube) found some documentaries on the topic, so the things our heroes are reminiscing about are only partially fiction...  
Should probably warn you about memories of attempted rape: nothing graphic, but be warned, dear reader, and be careful...  
Oh, the chapter has exactly one phrase in German) since I studied German in the university for three years (but didn't really bother actually learning it, sadly - hence the most basic level of my German)... hope, I wrote it correctly(

"Помнишь? (Do you remember?)"

"Да. (Yes.)"

"Следи за давлением, сказал ты, a я поезда раньше только на картинках в детских книжках видел… (Monitor the pressure, says you, and let’s ignore the fact this was my first time seeing a train outside of images in children’s books…)"

"Но ты справился, Митя. (But you managed, Mitya.) Ни с кем другим я ездить не хочу. (I don't want to ride with anyone else.)"

And he won’t, because Gustav Friedrich Heinz was just that kind of man… unyielding. Beside him Mitrofan Kirillovich Polevoi felt as if he was hidden behind castle walls… safe, and it was strange. Not unwelcome, no! Strange from the point of view of not being the only man in the house. At least now they could protect their castle together…

“What do you think about all this, Mitya?”

“The future is nice… and to be able to see the future is nice too.”

“Feverish…”

“And we are homeless… Manfred more than most.”

"Homes can be built. And Manfred does not seem all that disappointed."

Manfred reminded them of Yakov’s mate: born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but on a deep spiritual level so very lonely and, just like Manfred, he masked that loneliness with a smile and a laugh. Tony Stark was awkward like a new born foul when he talked to them, so very nervous about overstepping some mysterious boundary. He was yet to learn that they are sturdier than that…

Gustav witnessed a truck full of his comrades get blown up by a direct hit from an aerial bomb and had to burry what was left of them with those comrades who made it out of the airstrike alive, trying to piece together the remaining fragments… and failing, because the top half rarely fit the bottom one. There was also the winter of 1941 which they stumbled into lacking any form of winter gear and, which was most important, warm winter clothing because the high command thought they'd be done with the Russians by late November… foolish. He survived by the skin of his teeth by doing things he never thought he would do, by breaking himself, then together with Mitya they managed to pull Jurgen out of his personal hell and keep him close… survival in numbers… in thoughts that he was not alone…

Mitrofan Kirillovich, despite being a truck driver for the most part of the war, had seen his share of horrors too. He was one of those drivers who drove day and night on shoddy trucks to and fro the besieged and starving city of Leningrad, delivering scraps from the amount of supplies the city really needed and returning with children… evacuating children, who looked like stick figures bundled up in all sorts of clothes to keep those last sparks of warmth inside. Not all the trucks made it back, because the skies belonged to the German Luftwaffe… and they were merciless. Sometimes even more merciless than the ice and the cold waters of the lake Ladoga ever were.

These horrors were old, though, their pain dulled by time, a scar, not an open wound, but this delicate approach was still something new, something unusual… humbling, like they did something out of the ordinary when all they did was fight for the interests of their home countries.

When the man wasn't awkwardly fumbling through human relations, though, Tony Stark was brilliant, a revolutionary in all the best ways, and the fact that he did not rush blindly into anything in the eyes of people who lived through true revolutionary times (and suffered through all the misfortune those times brought) it meant ‘respect’...

The genius, his little girl, Miss Friday, the Artificial Intelligence - they fit in with shocking ease, filling the position no one suspected was vacant. If Yakov was the alpha-wolf of their group, then Tony was that secret ingredient that made them truly whole: the soul of the pack, the chains that bind, the glue… made them a team.

"... I think Oldman is ready."

"We still need water for the tank."

"Let's go help the boys. Ten tons is an awful lot to carry by bucket…"

Gustav answered with an affirmative grunt and straightened up to leave the cabin… but not before pulling his Russian in for a short, heated kiss. Mitya gave out a startled yelp, but quickly melted into it…

It felt good. Curling around each other on their shared bedroll felt good. Cooking together felt good. Even sharing their silence felt like a silky caress…

"Am I going mad?"

"Then we are going mad together."

Mitrofan Kirillovich was twenty four when he felt the burn of the soul mark etching itself into the skin of his thigh, happily married and a father of three beautiful children, waiting for the fourth to arrive into this world. A late bloomer, like his friends often joked, and for that were mercilessly beaten, because… you don't joke with these things. It did not ruin his marriage, like he feared it would. Maria, his sweet Maria, was too kind, too understanding for that, but he still held onto his vows like a man possessed…

He never really looked at it… he _avoided_ it… but when he found himself standing on a stool under the branch of an old apple tree growing in his backyard, staring into the loop of a noose… the same tree he buried all his family under…

He still had _someone_ left.

It was in German, his mark. He did not speak it, but his neighbor, Igor’ Zimin, did. The man had a past, but Mitrofan never pried. There were lots of other ways to die in these woods than from a knife to the ribs. Forty years is a little late to start learning a new language, but… well, his former friends turned out to be right. He was a late bloomer, indeed…

When the dreams started, he didn’t know what to expect of them… and he sure as hell didn’t expect Gustav. His mark branded into the young man’s right shoulder blade was a testament of how much he didn’t expect it, since it read a highly startled exclamation of ‘Ешкин кот!’.

“Once we get ourselves to a place with no windows and a door we can lock,” the German’s voice is a low growl. “Once we don’t have to run anymore… we are finishing this conversation, Mitya.”

“Hope, you’ll last longer than last time…”

That earned him a new growl and a new kiss, fiercer and at the same time infinitely _gentler _than the last one. Well, they were two grown men and, war or no war, one can always find possibilities to be sneaky… especially if you have a truck and a face and mannerisms of a country bumpkin. At least this way, should one of them die, the remaining one will have a little something to remember the other by…

In other words, it was an extremely awkward tumble in the woods.

“Work… we have work…”

“Too much work… but, yes, it needs to be done…”

“Yes… let us go and do that work…”

When they finally exit the engineer’s cabin the first things they see are Jurgen Lieberbaum’s tomato red cheeks and Dima’s knowing smirk, because, _of course_, they heard. The soldiers, however, remain unphased, because they know, when the time comes, these two will be facing the very same problem: how to keep your hands off your fated mate for more than one minute at a time.

“Get the buckets, you brats… and not a word.”

“No need for words, Uncle Mitya” the young man is smug. “It’s written _all_ over you…”

Whack! The rag Gustav used to clean the levers hits him over the head in quick retaliation, swatting the smugness away.

“Hey!”

“You were saying?”

“У-у… злые вы, уйду я от вас… (U-u, you meanies, I’m going to leave you for sure…)” his tone, though, was light, hinting that the combat engineer was joking. “You’ll comfort me, won’t you, Jurochka?”

Lieberbaum goes even redder. He is a natural blond (Tony said the shade was called 'platinum' and was quite rare, if it didn't come out of a bottle), so, in his case, if the blush ever comes, it comes like a tidal wave generously smearing red over his cheeks, down his neck and up his ears… but he nods enthusiastically, and pulls the grinning Russian into a one-armed hug.

Their story is a tragic one. It was a miracle Jurgen could tolerate any form of physical contact at all, not after what he had to experience, much less from a Russian speaking man. It was no secret that Germans used Russian war prisoners as voluntary helpers - it was better than rotting in a prison camp. The artillery where Jurgen served at the time had many of them employed: the former soviet soldiers looked after horses, performed manual labor, served as drivers…

Not all of them were good people - most just wanted to survive. The hate, though? It didn't really go anywhere, flaring up in the ugliest of ways…

Late autumn in Russia is cold and rainy. There were no roads to speak about, so they had to push their anti-tank cannon along with the few horses left. They also hadn't had a proper meal in several days due to their field kitchen going missing, so when night came and that man attacked him, Jurgen had little strength to fight him with…

Dmitriy was supposed to blow up a bridge about a kilometer north from the village the Germans settled in to cut off a possible retreat route. He was alone, but it was his tenth mission of the sort, so he knew he could pull it off nicely. When he heard the muffled cries and hissed out curses coming from the far away barn… crawling past was not an option.

His mother taught him better than that.

What he saw inside made his blood freeze in shock, then flare up in fury. So Dima unsheathed his sapper’s shovel… and bashed that скотина's (animal's) head in.

The bridge one kilometer north from the village did not go out in smoke that night, because he spent the lion's share of the dark hours trying to comfort the _enemy_, who was nearly _raped _in a most brutal manner_. _When the rooster announced the coming of morning, Dima, who was slowly rocking the still slightly trembling German in his arms, said:

"Всё будет хорошо, вот увидишь. (All will be alright, you'll see.)"

Jurgen nodded, trying to hide his tear stricken face in the _enemy_ soldier's chest, whispering a quiet:

"Ja, ich glaube das auch. (Yes, I think so too)."

And that's when the realization hit them both like a ton of bricks. Two months later Jurgen writes a letter to his commanding officer requesting a transfer and ends up in the infantry, acting as Gustav’s second number.

Officer Heinz doesn’t have a third number nor does he have six soldiers guarding his back, so it’s just Heinz, Lieberbaum and their MG-34… a trusty, deadly combination.

None of their first meetings were happy ones. Some were only slightly better than the worst case scenario, really. Sometimes Mitrofan Kirillovich wondered: how did they manage to survive this at all? How did they manage to balance it out without falling?

A little personal act of bravery.

***

"You know, when the urge to deconstruct something in 24 hours strikes me, fuck the SI affiliated construction brigade - I'm calling you guys…"

Tony was impressed, and didn't bother hiding it.

By the time Gustav finished working on the Oldman, the Wonder Brothers pillaged all the wooden and burnable materials in a three kilometer radius: fifteen good railroad cars, ten broken up railroad cars and any other cars they stumbled upon - all stripped bare. The scavenged boards were then broken in two, sometimes three pieces, aligned into neat stacks and loaded into the locomotive. During the second wave of scavenging they found a small stock of coal, the glossy black kind Dima called anthracite, inside the station’s dry fuel deposits. The definition of small was also very relative here - what Tony would call several tons of mineral, in Dima's world could support a family of four for _one_ relatively cold winter… barely. Nevertheless, it was better than nothing, so they found a cart and rolled all those three tons of hard coal into Oldman too.

The twins (both sets of them) just shrugged at the compliment. Physical labor was nothing special: to keep your ship afloat you need to work, to keep your library afloat you need to work too. Plus, they dug their fair share of trenches back in the day.

"Seriously, though. I have seen professionals work slower… and sloppier."

"Our father was a carpenter. We were meant to be too, but mother convinced him to try and give us a more… profound education," said Carl, while adjusting his glasses; he didn’t need them anymore - the serum fixed his eyesight, but… habits. "We worked in the library because the working hours there did not conflict with our lessons schedule and we had free access to books. But we never did start that first university year…"

"We got drafted," finished Claus with a small smile. "South. To Crimea. We saw the sea for the first time. It was beautiful."

"We always thought this love for the sea came from our soulmates," Carl again. "But we learned later that we are capable of loving it immensely on our own accord."

_We…_

Tony couldn't help noticing the omnipresent ‘_we’_ that had its long bunny ears sticking out of almost every sentence - as if there wasn't an opinion the brothers did not agree on. When he sneaked a peek at Marat and Artyom, he saw them watching their Germans with subtle sadness. There was a story there, and Tony wasn't sure he wanted to hear it, because after the facility they had enough Hydra darkness staining them to last a lifetime.

Marat must have noticed his facial expression change, because the sadness was gone, replaced by that sassy sort of humor only good stand-up comedians seem to have.

"After Sevastopol was overrun we became partisans… guerilla war, yes?"

Tony nodded. Marat continued, smiling openly now:

"Crimea has excellent beaches, pebbles instead of sand, but you don't view this as an inconvenience. Lots of secluded places and quiet nooks you need to be a local to know about… and the summer of 1942 was scorching hot. _We _were hot in our civilian clothes, and Germans in their dark-grey uniforms and metal helmets? You can imagine… "

"You mean, you guys, what, were sneaking out for swims? On enemy territory?!"

The way the brothers turned sheepish, simultaneously, was sort of fascinating. Then Carl mumbled:

"Not enemy - just hostile."

"You know what I'm talking about…"

"Ha! Me and Tyomych kept the village under observation for three days, and _they_ were the only ones who seemed relatively interested in the world beyond the house their squad was occupying… They wandered around! Every day! We were in high spirits like 'That's our chance to get some fresh information!'… instead we found ourselves hiding in the bushes like Peeping Toms, because these two decided that today was the day to go swimming… in the _nude…_"

Tony's jaw dropped. Morgan was openly sniggering along with Artyom, who was making winky faces in his mate's direction. Carl and Claus displayed new shades of sheepishness.

"... we didn't have spare clothes."

"You could have brought spare underwear!"

"Why are you so modest now? You clearly liked what you saw!"

"Of course, I did! But what if it wasn't us, but somebody else?"

"Don't worry, we had it handled."

"How?"

"Wouldn't you want to know…"

"I very much would."

The genius inched closer to Carl and quietly asked him, eyes never leaving this fine example of fond lovers-bitching:

"Are they always like this?"

"Yes. It is their way of flirting with each other," the man paused. "And we _did_ have a plan."

"For curiosities sake, was it good?"

"I throw knives very well. Carry a sheath with me always… here," a dirty hand tapped a familiar place on the left shoulder; Yasha sometimes carried a knife there too. "I'd throw the knife, Claus would jump for the gun… tra-ta-ta-ta! A lot of dead bodies, because brother is an excellent shot… chaos! Everyone retreats to regroup."

"I did some research on WWII German automatic rifles…"

"Sand could be a problem, yes. But this was a pebble beach! Chances were good."

And what could you say to that? Other than a contemplative 'huh'? Strategic thinking in action!

"So you just met on that beach? After the fight in the trenches…"

"It became our secret place… after Marat found the courage to come out."

"I always had the courage - I wasn't sure you wanted me."

Claus sighed, clearly exasperated.

"... my mate is an idiot! If I did not want this, you would have never walked out of that dugout!"

In the distance an owl starts to hoot, and the amicable atmosphere around them breaks. Tony picks Morgan up in his arms and after a silent nod from the brothers disappears inside the shed, because he knows what this means…

They are about to have company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes of explanation:  
1\. Eшкин кот! - literally, means Baba-Yaga's cat) John Weak has nothing to do with this x)) in Russian lore Baba-Yaga more often than not is portrayed as an ugly witch living in a forest in a magic hut on chicken legs, presumably, eats children... not a very kind lady, all in all. Her cat isn't particularly kind either, likes to scare you too) used as a substitute for much harsher language)  
2\. A sapper's shovel - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MPL-50 - if you sharpen the edge, can be used as a battle axe of sorts) German soldiers had no such combat practices, so many were outright shocked by the brutality of fighting using this tool.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the meantime, in New York...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably saw this coming ;))  
Or not, which is also good) means I am not that predictable yet...
> 
> if you notice things out of order, let me know, please) feedback is important B)

They are in the middle of PT at the VA center when Modest Eduardovich, the sassy, witty and at times shockingly crass back-seat driver that he was, suddenly goes disturbingly pale and slowly slides out of the beach chair he claimed and onto the gym floor, clutching the shirt on his chest with a trembling hand. The first thought that hits Sam at this very moment is a panicky 'He's having a stroke! OMG!' followed by a swift kick of 'Ambulance! Need! Now!' from his professional instincts. He isn't the only one thinking along the same lines, because there are people rushing to the old pianist, helping him up, trying to carry him to the nearest bench… someone is scrambling towards the cabinet where they keep the first aid kit…

Sam is halfway to the door, adamant on calling 911, when Modest Eduardovich with surprising strength for his age and petite completion fights off the hands holding him down and all but growls out:

"Let go of me, you doting idiots! I'm not dying! It's the bond! It's just the bond! Active again…"

And everything kinda stops. For Sam Wilson, at least, who assumed… well, who just assumed. Wrongly! Because he thought, we’re all traumatized here, so the old man's soulmate must be… not with them anymore?

"Oh! Your roach is alive then… good news! Now I can kill him," General-Major Chijikov, despite the ‘former’ part, is radiating righteous fury.

"Don't call him that…"

"He left you alone, so I can call him whatever I want!"

"Still don't call him that."

"Hmph!"

"... he didn't do it on purpose, Chija," the words were spoken softly, with unspoken gratitude for the friendly protection so readily given. "They just… found out, I guess."

"_They_?" Sam couldn't help himself. "Who is '_they_'?"

"The same people who had Yakov Igorevich all these years… the Hydra organization."

After such an admission any therapy session they might have had was officially ruined. Sam, though, felt a little lost, because he, personally, found out about Hydra only recently, when he decided to help Steve find and save his childhood friend. And he lived in a world overflowing with information. How did _these_ guys know?

He said as much.

"How did you know?"

Mister Yavorski answered with a sad smile.

"Well, some would think fate was cruel to me, but I always thought that we get what we deserve… no more and no less."

Mister Chijikov rolled his eyes.

"Again with the philosophy, Modya… Can't you simply tell them you got paired up with a member of the Waffen SS? Who were Nazi fanatics almost all of them…"

"When you say it like that it just sounds sad…"

"As it should! Because if that wasn’t enough, he also got the rest of the SS officer package, him being also an aristocrat, relatively good looking, a damned Prussian, who played the violin… _tall…_ everything Modya here is not!"

"Hey!" now Modest Eduardovich looked mildly offended. "And I'm still more good looking than you!"

"Oh… forgot to add to the list the guy was devilishly lucky… Modya nearly shot him dead!"

"And he nearly gutted me like a fish afterwards. Even, no?"

"Модя, Модя… горе ты наше луковое… (Modya, Modya… our little disaster…)"

The guys could only stare in shock. They've heard a lot of war stories, but this… this was somehow different. It is Eric who asks quietly:

"So… what happened? If it is okay to ask…"

Strangely it is Mister Chernov that answers, because the other two of his friends are too distressed to speak. Their age old argument: General Chijikov did _not_ approve, to what pianist Yavorski always gives an irritated huff and tells him where he can carry his approval to in a very creative manner.

"Like Modest already mentioned, fate sometimes has an odd sense of humor. Some moments need to be explained, however - a sniper's life was very short in that war we all fought. Where we displayed numbers, the Germans displayed skill. Unlike us, they had an actual sniper school, where they trained people with real qualifications. We had only sharpshooter after school courses, where kids competed with air guns for badges…" the former KGB Colonel smiles a little warm smile at those memories. "It is thurther in the war that we added our skill to our numbers, but moving back to Modya… eventually, such a person came after him."

“Did they… have a sniper duel?” Wolly the Marine asked with starry eyes; earned him some good-natural sniggering from all sides.

“Do not always believe what Hollywood tells you, comrade. It is hardly heroic… these dueling activities. You stalk each other, sometimes for days: set traps, avoid traps, change roles from the hunter to being the hunted and vice versa, before one of you makes a mistake…”

"And someone dies," finished Eric Muller with a strange expression. Mister Chernov nods.

"Yes… and someone dies. Luckily for us, Modya actually remembered what stories Yakov Igorevich was telling us during training, and it was his wristwatch that perished heroically and not him…"

"Wristwatch? Oh…” Wolly’s eyes go wide for s second, when understanding hits him. “The sun reflects off the glass cover, makes you think it is a sniper scope… when you see the gleam, you don’t go investigating, you just shoot…"

“So… how did the German make it?"

"... he fell," it was Modest Eduardovich who answered this time: quietly, barely above a whisper; as if remembering _hurt_. "In the most life and death moment of Manfred’s life the branch he was perched on snapped. He held the rifle steady out of habit even when his body was sliding down… it saved his life. I crept under that tree _twice_ and we didn't notice each other… very embarrassing. Either way, the bullet went through the scope and grazed his temple, but I think the fall did more damage than I… it was a tall tree and an almost five meter drop."

Sam tried imagining it. Not the drop – the situation as a whole. Your soulmate, who is a soldier… your soulmate, who is sitting with a gun in some trench or dugout just like you are sitting in some trench or dugout with _your own_ gun… and those guns are pointed at each other, loaded with very real bullets. Someone sounds the attack and both of you rise in that attack, guns at the ready… and shoot. And then, after, frantically/carefully/in fake disinterest look at your respective marks: did it fade or not?

And people lived like this for years…

Mister Chernov’s voice brings him out of his musings.

“Regarding the Hydra situation. It would seem they used the SS, who were the German Army Elite, as a front for their experiments and operations. They performed the same trick with the KGB some years later and with your SHIELD group now. If it works, then why change, eh?”

“So… your soulmate, Modest Eduardovich, was blackmailed into giving you up?” Eric stumbled for a moment on the tricky Russian name, but pulled his question through. Stark’s leg prosthesis did him good – the shadow of the legless veteran, indifferent to the world, all but gone. If only his ex would stop harassing him over the phone and social media… because should Sasha come to know there would be more than just punching.

“He was obligated to turn me in. All soulmate pairs in Germany at that time had to undergo a registration… and I am, on top of being from an enemy nation, a Jew. You know what they did to Jews…” the old pianist rubbed his chest with a pained grimace, right over his heart, where, presumably, the mark was. “Manfred, the stubborn mule, refused. So they – eventually – took him… it is quite hard to catch a sniper if he doesn’t want to be caught.”

“… you think they did to him what they did to Sargent Barnes… and Arseniy?”

“Would be foolish to exclude the possibility… otherwise how he would have survived the freezing?”

Suddenly Sam's phone comes alive. A chorus of _'I believe I can fly! I believe I can touch the sky!_' cuts through the tense atmosphere, eliciting a new fit of sniggering. He lets them laugh… was meaning to change that to something more badass anyway…

"Wilson."

"Hey, Wilson! It's Colonel Rhodes…"

"Sir?" something in Rhodey's voice set him on alert; its careful blankness perhaps?

"You at the center?"

"Yeah?"

"The rest of the crew with you?"

"... yeah?" now the bells of trouble were ringing full force.

"Don't go anywhere. I'm coming over with something you _absolutely _have to watch…"

True to his word Colonel Rhodes arrived half an hour later, War Machine armor and all. By then they moved to the center's recreational room, the only one with a big flat-screen TV…

The first thing James Rhodes did was activate a portable frequency jammer, and that's when Sam heard the funeral march kicking in, because… was the footage they were about to watch really _that_ secret?!

"You all know the main reason behind Tony's sudden departure," started Tony's best friend after a moment spent on gathering his thoughts. "Some of you, possibly, even know why they decided to take the scenic route, but _right_ _now_ that doesn't matter, because… I need your help."

He was looking at the trio of WWII Russian veterans when he said it. Modest Eduardovich rubbed that peculiar place over his heart, expression closed. General Chijikov tensed up, like a dog posed for a fight. Mister Chernov… remained as he was, relaxed and politely curious. It was he, who said:

"We will be happy to assist you in any way we can, Colonel."

"Thank you," Rhodey turned serious. "Let us begin then… What you are about to see happened yesterday. Several days prior SHIELD was anonymously warned about a guest from another dimension roaming Earth. That mysterious person was even kind enough to include a picture of the trespasser! It's a little girl… and she goes by the name of Morgan Stark."

That shocked them all speechless, because… there was only _one_ Stark on this planet. And he didn’t have kids, aside from the ones he built himself.

"Stark?!"

"You heard me."

"Sister, perhaps?"

"More like daughter, but you can see the predicament I found myself in when Fury confronted me with the topic of Tony's possible illegitimate children…"

"Is it true?"

"The children part? No. The 'guest from another dimension' part? We were nearly invaded by aliens _twice, _so… I try keeping an open mind. And then Pepper calls me! And says Tony confirmed both versions: that Morgan Stark is indeed his kid, but… from another dimension."

The situation resembles a rom-com, but Sam's butt nerve tells him that they won't be smiling for long.

"Oh! Congratulations to Mister Stark," Mister Chernov smiles: still polite, still relaxed. "And what about this spy organization of yours?"

"They tracked Tony down to a small city in Germany - where he never showed - and flooded the city with their agents including Hawkeye and the Black Widow…"

"The big guns, eh?" the old KGB agent was outright trolling him, but, strangely, it made Rhodes loose some of his inner tension and smile. He was no stranger to self-irony.

"Ginormous! Practically the biggest Fury has… after Tony went full on cold shoulder on him. Instead they saw someone else…"

He pushed the flash drive into the flat-screen and started the video file. They see the insides of a small cozy coffee shop. Natasha Romanoff is sitting on the opposite bar stool, but what catches Sam's eye are the two Germans behind the table in the corner. One seems absolutely engrossed in his smartphone, talking non-stop, the other is smoking meditatively over his coffee cup. Mundane actions, but something feels off nonetheless…

It's the way he holds the cigarette, realizes Wilson. Like he can’t stand it, squeezing the butt with his thumb and forefinger, tip down… inhaling the smoke more than actually taking drags out of it. He’s a smoker, yes, but obviously prefers to smoke something else…

He isn’t the only one with sharp eyes, though.

“The guy with the phone… I mean, the scrolling… you use your thumbs to scroll, why’s he using his forefinger?” Wolly is slightly confused, frowning a bit because of it. Modest Eduardovich gives out a weak laugh:

“That is because when he was born all phones had only disks for dialing… and no screen…”

“Wait… that’s him?! The Manfred dude?!”

“… yes… hasn’t aged a day since we saw each other last…”

And wasn’t that a shocker…but Sam was somewhat used to such things happening in his life by now, so he held his shit together. Plus, he was genuinely curious: he’d seen American super-soldiers, Russian super-soldiers and now he was about to see German super-soldiers. It was like a game of finding ten differences…

But no, they looked absolutely normal. Manfred was rocking a shaggy ponytail, while his friend looked like someone straight out of a recruiting poster. You want to be like him? Join the German military! But then they stand up to leave, the light falls on the left side of his face and Sam sees the scars…

Shrapnel. Beside him General Chijikov utters something that could only be a string of swear words. They just had that certain ring to them… never mind the half-snarling expression they were all but spit out.

Nobody, even Sasha, had ever seen the usually cheery veteran this… emotional.

"Дедушка? (Granpa?)"

"И этот жив, фашист проклятый… (And this one is alive too, the damn fascist!)” the man takes a deep breath, trying to rile his emotions in, not really succeeding, but it was enough to revert back to English. "This man… his name was Jager… when _Jager_ was in his tank, he was God… or Devil, it was hard to separate. During the battle of Prohorovka I was among those at the second defense line (there were three lines in total), and we were supporting an anti-tank cannon. My very first time holding an anti-tank armor-piercing rifle… you are a sniper, Sargent Chijikov? Here you go! Let us see if you are any good with big things to shoot! Against Panthers and Tigers these rifles did not do much – the armor was too thick, but… they soon learned not to peek out of their tank hatches…"

Sam caught himself listening with his mouth open. Captain America war reels had nothing on this! The others weren’t much different, even Colonel Rhodes. Sasha, though, didn’t look happy at all – unlike the others he knew how it will end.

"We thought we got all of them, you know? Two Tigers and three Panthers… lost half the men and almost lost the cannon… a good day to be alive, you know? The steppe around us resembles the landscape of the Moon, crater after crater after crater, covered in bodies of the dead and burning machines… one of them could have been you, you know? Until one of them shot tanks comes alive… it's charred over, tower jammed at an awkward angle, cannon blasted open by a bundle of grenades like a flower, and through the holes in its sides you can actually see the mechanisms working… and the dead crew members, burned, black and bloody. The Panther is a five man tank, and four were dead…"

"The commander?"

"Yes. Concussed, he must have crawled into the driver's seat and… We could only stare, transfixed, because we killed him so many times already! Why won't he just…"

"Stay down?" murmured Eric, eyes locked on his legs. He knows what it feels like – he’d been on the receiving end. Metal fingers glide soothingly over the knuckles of his left arm… never again.

"Yes. And then he hit the tank into high gear and… rammed his Panther into our trenches. Who was too slow got mauled by tank tracks. Earth, grass, _people_ \- you wouldn't know in that brown mass. Later, I realized that they had their orders too: to take the position we were protecting, probably… or silence our cannon… by the time he reached it, the Panther was burning the second time around. The ammo could detonate at any moment, but he… forged on! Germans don’t _do_ that…"

“You had to retreat, didn’t you?”

“Yes… and it was logical. Probably, saved our lives… When I turned around, looked back, adamant on shooting the bastard, I saw him bent in half beside his tank (still burning, still on the verge of detonation) puking his insides out… concussion, you know. One of his arms is limp, so he wipes his mouth with the remaining one, scars on full view now… and I don’t shoot him.”

“Why?”

“Because he kept repeating ‘Я не умру сегодня, Андрюша (I won’t die today, Andryusha)’ in accented, but accurate Russian… and I remembered my best friend Modya and his predicament,” Sidor Anatolyevich grins in Modya’s direction rather wryly. "You were not alone…"

“Well, while this is certainly interesting…” Rhodey stifled a cough. “Wait till you see the rest of it. The coffee shop encounter is just the icing on the cake I’m about to show you, because they left, Widow and Hawkeye stayed… and then _this_ happens.”

The picture on the screen changes, and Sam finds himself in the middle of an action movie. Only it’s no action movie - its real life…

The locomotive is also very much real, speeding down the railroad track, cheerfully puffing smoke and steam. Even from this distance one could make out two shapes in the cabin: one - leaning half-way out the side window, an epitome of concentration, watching the train, watching the track, hell, watching the way the smoke disperses into the sky, while the other is in continuous motion, working _hard, _feeding the locomotive’s fiery heart with coal shovel after shovel_. _Sam felt his back ache from just looking at him...

"Is that… wow! What tank is that?" whispered Eric in awe. "I have never seen this one… and I was a history nerd."

"This is a soviet T-34… armed with a 85mm cannon, if I'm not mistaken," Mister Chernov inched closer to the screen, narrowing his eyes at the picture. "The Tank of Victory, as it is sometimes called. What I don't recognize is the transporting platform. Never have I seen anything like it."

"It was made especially for the Tiger. The tank was too heavy for the platforms the Germans already had, but they needed it transported still… custom job!" Modest Eduardovich inched closer too. "Saw this happen…"

"Huh… where is the other tank then?"

"Other?"

"It stands as if making place for one more…"

"Oh! You are right!"

The T-34 is small and compact, gives off the vibe of something agile, even if it is 35 tons of quality steel in armor and gears. Smooth lines and sharp angles… and wings drawn on the tower in white paint, stemming from the scarred, almost faded red star. There is a man suspiciously resembling Tony Stark, who is using parts of the Ironman armor as sophisticated welding gear – he is making gangways out of what seemed like rails, teared straight out of the ground. The Winter Soldier assists him, holding the frame steady. Minus one suspicion – like hell would Yakov heave metal for anyone else!

“You sure there is another tank?”

“Oh, my friend, have you not heard what I said? You think you killed him… Кощей Бессмертный, твою мать… (Koshey the Deathless, fucking shit…)”

“Huh…”

They soon realize that the locomotive isn’t moving all that fast, puff-puff-puffing on its merry way… like a big-big piece of bait. Wilson’s eyes go wide, as well as Eric’s, Wolly’s, the rest of the guys… Sasha’s face betrays nothing. Colonel Rhodes’ expression is dark, like he is seriously going through the internal debate of sending in the fighter jets or something. The old veterans are all crookedly smirking into their metaphorical mustaches…

“It’s not going to be SHIELD, is it? In the video…”

“Mercenaries: no ID in sight, clean weapons, no distinctive traits… no clue who hired them.”

“Who would benefit most from owning a Stark, especially one that does not exist?”

The KGB agent always asks right questions in right moments. Rhodes' answer is grim:

"Everyone. But Tony doesn't have enemies."

"Oh?"

"They tend to not live long."

A column of white jeeps appears in the picture: they follow the locomotive by road, keeping a parallel course, and when the highway takes a sharp right turn away from the tracks, they just leave it, going cross-country.

The head jeep is soon on one level with the cabin, the driver opens the window, starts screaming and making gestures with his hand which Sam could summarize as 'Pull over, buster, or I will shoot!'. They fall to deaf ears, however, and not because the guy doesn't hear him in all the racket the train is making.

He wants him to do _more_.

Several things happen in quick succession. The merc in the jeep pulls a gun out, a who's-laughing-now smirk curving his lips. The engineer quirks an unimpressed eyebrow at the display… and hits the emergency steam release. A torrent of white hot steam hits the car straight on, eliciting a new round of screaming, this time of burning pain. The chaos inside the car is very much real, someone starts shooting… when plans break and you have a firearm, you shoot… reflexes.

A blast of purple energy, coming from the open cabin doorway, hits the jeep in the back, crunching the passanger doors like old biscuits, tearing through metal, rubber wheels and car seats, blasting everything behind the front seats away!

"Holy shit!" somebody gasps behind his back, but Wilson doesn't turn around to acknowledge who. His eyes are glued to the screen, because after that one epic move comes the second epic.

… the column shatters. With the leader gone it's every man for himself and for the money.

The man resembling Tony Stark turnes out to be indeed Tony Stark, the armor assembling around him a dead giveaway. One, two, three… Boom! An uni-beam cuts through the nearest car, breaking it in two… he must have hit the fuel line, as the jeep stumbles and explodes.

The Soldier using the distraction to his advantage jumps out of his mate's shadow like a particularly vicious demon, landing on the roof of the nearest car. The mercs inside the car try shooting him off. A virtual hale of bullets: they hit him in the legs, thighs, shoulder, arms, stomach, chest… some are deflected by the metal prosthesis, some helplessly bite into the armor, some dig into flesh, but it does little to hinder this monster of a man. Yakov punches through the roof and rips the steering wheel out of the shocked driver's hands. The jeep loses control and crashes into the transport platform, only managing to rattle it a bit. The Soldier returns to be Ironman's faithful shadow, landing in a graceful crutch by his feet.

The locomotive releases an almost animalistic kind of sound, like a hourse let loose after too much time being locked up in the stable, and accelerates. Somehow… it feels like the time for jokes is over.

The jeeps fall back a bit… or is it because the train is just that fast? How fast can these steam powered giants even go?! Sam hadn't realised he said it aloud until Mister Chernov answered him:

"Without cars? If the engineer and the stoker are a good team? Over 100 km/h."

"Really?!"

"There are even world records… all German."

"Oh."

"He has 35 tons weighing him down, but while the cars are struggling with terrain, he is running on flat rails."

"Come on, Borya! He is not trying to outrun them…" Sidor Anatolyevich chides him lightly. "He is trying to give the second tank maneuvering space!"

"You still think there is a second one?"

"Bet your wiskey collection on it! And Modya's woolen socks that it's going to be a Panther."

"Because Jager won't ride in anything else?"

"He is a professional, but… Germans really don't know how to improvise."

Despite the fact that they knew about the existence of the second tank its actual arrival on the battlefield was still a shocker. General Chijikov was right - it was a Panther, but whomever was behind the wheel was most certainly not German. Sam found this manner of driving eerily familiar, but couldn't quite place a finger on it…

Ah, Youtube. And those videos about crazy Russians and their crazy escapades on the less than stellar roads of Mother Russia.

The Panther jumped them from the side, which meant it had been following the auto-column for quite some time. Like a shark barreling through a shoal of fish, it rammed itself straight in the middle of the white jeep group. One car was ran over in the first seconds, the one behind it - blown up by a precise shot from the main cannon, then the Panther revved its motor in a bloodthirsty yowl and pounced backwards, pancaking the third jeep that tried to zip past…

All this was performed while carrying people on board. The tank troopers, which weren't blown off the armor during that cannon shot only due to the muzzle brake being removed beforehand. Five people in civilian garb, out of which only Manfred was somewhat recognizable thanks to his ponytail. When the tank did a graceful pirouette on one track over the remains of jeep number three, effectively blocking a part of the area with its impressive bulk, they jumped off and dashed in five different directions like startled mice…

Sam got the answer to his unspoken 'why?' in the next five minutes, when the element of surprise was no longer crucial. The rest of the mercenaries fell back even more. They were down to three cars now and frankly were starting to reconsider… they did not sign up for this! But there was also the question of reputation and professional ethics - they could not just drop the contract without trying absolutely _everything _in the book. So they pause, regroup and pull out the big guns aka the anti-tank missile complexes against which the Panther had no protection.

Any minute now, thought Sam, any minute now Ironman will save the day. But Tony had nothing but his repulsors, the mini-missiles all lost inside the Hydra base (presumably), so instead they hear a mechanized shout of:

"_Jurgen!" _

And the T-34 everybody forgot about suddenly lashes out with a hale of bullets of its own. Ten seconds and the last three jeeps (along with everything in the vicinity) look like Swiss cheese…

The attack has crumbled.

"Holy crap! What in the hell was that?!"

"An MG-34 machine-gun… Must have taken it off the tank…"

"A WWII gun did this?!" Wolly was a firm believer in the might of the American military industry… before his own rifle crippled him to the point the doctors had to hold a consilium: to cut or not to cut. Their decision saved his life, but his faith in life was only now filling the previously vacated spaces… his faith in the American gun, however, remained spotty.

"You think we waged war on each other using sticks or something?" Modest Eduardovich huffs in quiet irritation. "Chija, can you believe this guy?"

"He just hadn't seen this WWII gun cut a man in half… somebody survived, Colonel?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Colonel Rhodes sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Two people were found about a mile away from the battle site with signs of… brutal interrogation techniques."

"Torture, you mean."

"... okay, torture. Whatever they told them, it earned them an execution afterwards. We found no functional weapons or ammo at the sight - these guys must have taken it, as well as everything they could use…"

"So… what do you want from us?"

"Where are they going?"

"Where else can a Russian man go? Home…"

"And the closest patch of 'home' is… in Kaliningrad. How will they pass the border, though?"

"Mister Stark has it handled, I am sure. But this is not what truly interests you," Mister Chernov sends an understanding half-smile his way. "You are worried about the company your best friend is in. Especially after this video we saw today…"

"Would you blame me?"

"No. They torture people to death after all."

"That's… well, it's a point, of course, but not _the _point."

"Let me rephrase then: do you trust Yakov? These are _his_ men."

Rhodey is silent. They are not exactly friends with the stoic Russian, but they have their thing… like those herbal teas that the Air Force Colonel gets in little cloth satchels with brewing instructions pinned to them and the ones he drinks according to schedule _always, _even when all other medication is forsaken.

"I trust him with Tony, don't I… and he is one of the most precious people in my life."

"Not the President?" again the trolling, but its good-natural now.

"Nah, that's just work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes of explanation:  
1) When General Chijikov calls Manfred a 'roach' it's actually a semi-historical reference) we all know these brown cockroaches with long antennas, probably, have seen one at least once in our lives)) well, in Russia they are also called Prussians X) because, as the saying goes, many believe they came to Russia from there... the Prussians, however, think it's the other way around X) personally, I think it's the similarity between the long antennas of the insect and the long mustaсhes Otto von Bismark style many Prussian/German men favored.  
2) горе луковое - onion grief or a grief provoked by onions, meaning... overreacting or being overly dramatic over some events/situations) also can be a person prone to overreacting over things that are really easy to solve or aren't really that grave as he/she pictures it.  
3) The armor-piercing rifle - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/PTRD-41  
4) Koshey the Deathless is another fragment of Russian lore) famouse for being literally deathless, because he literally had his death hidden away, so... if don't know the secretm you can't kill him. Ironically (and if I'm not mistaken) it was the Baba-Yaga who sold him out to the hero in that fairy tale... talk about the degrees of evil in the world...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between point A and point B...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do some of our heroes look like...  
While Rudolph and Andrei resemble the actors in the T-34 movie, here are some of the others.
> 
> For some reason when I think about the character of baron Manfred, I see this man... he wasn't a sniper, he waged war in a tank, but... I kinda fell in love with his smile)  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kurt_Knispel  
P.S. the English Wiki article does him little justice, though =.=
> 
> When I saw this, I thought 'yep, that's our Jurgen':  
https://i.pinimg.com/564x/bf/00/56/bf0056d82fde6f3701e399cfebbb1ea2.jpg

Shaken, not stirred. The finest description of his life the English vocabulary has to offer right now, because being a victim of torture himself, Tony Stark would never have thought he would revert to the less than savory days when he allowed himself to be ignorant. But...

But.

He also knew how this _business _worked.

Despite the fact that they knew _who_ was behind the kidnapping attempt, they needed names. Ideal, from a third party. The best, if said party had a reputation of being credible and legitimate. The mercenaries were neither, but…

Tiberius Stone ordered the hit in person.

The genius could see it in their eyes: when Yasha sketched out the possibilities and the outcomes, when Gustav with an unreadable expression put the metal rod over the red-hot coals inside the train's furnace, when Dima took one whiff and cringed in disgust for they _reeked_ of that damn toilet water Stone called a cologne these days…

They understood right away _what_ they were about to be interrogated for.

"I hope it was worth it," was the single thing Tony said that day and was cursed seven ways to Sunday for it. The funny thing, though, was that they spilled the beans _long_ before Yakov had to resort to actually inflicting severe bodily harm which put them somewhere below a louse in the eyes of the men and AI’s watching.

Depressing really…

“Does this happen often?” Manfred’s voice right over his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts; damn the man for being so tall… and so silent. If he still had a heart condition…

"Used to… before. After one of these ‘happenings’ Ironman was born… and I started hitting back, until all those bad guys out there had to think _thrice_ before messing with me,” Tony felt a scowl forming and willed it back into neutrality. “I wonder who told Stone that this time it would be different…”

“We will have to ask him when we visit him then.”

“Oh? I thought it would be just me and Snowflake, you know, to not mix you into anything _too_ illegal…”

“Your enemies are our enemies, my friend. This is how this,” here Manfred gives out a quiet laugh while gesturing around himself rather vaguely, “_wolf pack_ works.”

“Wait till you meet the real wolves: we… might have adopted several after Hydra attacked the Avengers Compound in New York. And they’re not at all like the ‘_wolves_’ from the facility, but actual _timber_ wolves that were turned into… well, another kind of wolves…”

“Oh… that is okay.”

“They are with James and Sunny now, hiding somewhere in Alaska… I need to make Sunny a new arm too… stronger and better, one that won’t break when the man goes berserk…” Tony falls silent for a few moments, reigning in the rambling. “Yeah… and we will be flying right into it…”

“That is also okay, Mister Stark.”

“Tony.”

The baron nodded, excepting it, before continuing:

“Why is old man Manfred so sure you might be thinking, Tony… Well, firstly, this is nothing compared to the snake pit of German High Command. Rarely did my grandfather come home in a good mood… when he was invited.”

“Oh, he was in there?”

“Yes. By far the oldest one… saw the First World War from the first days to the last days, fought with the Russians on the Eastern front… and he outright told them what a bad idea this is. He was forced into retirement for it. Thus, we come to the second point: there is little we haven’t seen… or seen too much in a very short time? You understand.”

“M-m… we won’t be staying in the States for long, though. Ironman may be a New York super-hero, but I caught myself thinking – I don’t want to stay there anymore. Do business? Sure! But living? No… I felt safe there before - now I don’t.”

“Which brings us to the third point… if mein Herz (my heart) will have me… or if he received the message I left for him… either way, we will have walls to call our own.”

That made Tony pause, because… walls?! He said as much:

“…walls?”

“After 75 years? Only walls. Perhaps, a roof? And absolutely no windows. Windows are always the first to go…”

“Hold on… are you willing to house us?! I mean, all of us: me, Button, Yakov, the guys, Dietrich and Tisha, Sunny and his mate, the Fluff Brothers, Friday and my bots… never mind all the boxes of personal things.”

“Why not? It is a big house! Most might even risk it and call the place a castle.”

“I... never lived in a castle before. Cottages, apartments, _rooms - _never a castle.”

“Well, you must know that if you think you managed to save up on repairs, then be sure to expect a very drafty winter, because old buildings can be very… unforgivable.”

The rational part of Tony Stark understood what the man was trying to do, mainly, distract him from the whole two dead boddies, which were tortured to near death beforehand, now being dragged away somewhere situation. And Tony let him, because another part of him, the ever present Merchant of Death, also knew that in case of success these same people would have taken Morgan away and, most likely, killed them all. It was a veritable horror show helping Yakov pluck the bullets out of the wounds on his legs, watching the flesh knit itself together… but even his Soldier won't rise from a shot to the head.

Tony Stark made a choice. He _will_ live with it.

“So, Red Baron, where _is_ this wonderful-wonderful place?”

“... wasn’t he a pilot?”

“Oh, so you're in the theme! Nice…”

“And the place is in Königsberg, which is where we are currently going."

“I thought it was Kaliningrad.”

“The soviets must have renamed it after the war. They tore my homeland apart, but at least the Russians got the heart of it. If the Polish or the Czech got it, I would have had trouble living with my spiritual grief.”

Tony grinned and punched him (lightly!) on the shoulder. A man capable of self-irony was his type of man.

“Be grateful I didn’t call you Manny! Because when I give nicknames they tend to, you know, _stick_.”

***

Oldman was on the move again: no break-neck speeding, but no turtle crawl either… cruising. If they wanted to reach the Canadian, pardon, Russian border, they had to start rationing their fuel supplies, but that would be a problem for another time because _now_ they had enough of everything and it felt... liberating.

While Tony screwed the muzzle brake back onto Dietrich’s cannon (a surprisingly delicate operation: if you miss a millimeter the cannon has all the chances to bloom all flower-like… or not, and just be an imbalanced shit), Morgan monitored the Internet, because you never can be too sure.

Somebody _always_ sees something.

They used the makeshift gangways to get the Panther on board, secured both tanks to the platform and… covered them up with a big multicolored canvas made out of several tents the Sergeenko brothers teared apart and sewed back together, this time the way _they _liked it. Tony, who was watching them from the corner of his eye, caught himself thinking about when the masculine population of dear old Earth took that particularly wrong turn. None of the men he knew (well, maybe except Rhodey) could find the right end of a sewing needle, much less sew the holes in their socks.

“Remember our time-machine musings over coffee, Snowflake?”

“Dusha moya, such things I never forget.”

“I just thought I wouldn’t survive in the 40s… zero survival skills - that's me...”

“Oh?”

“You guys? You are _badass_! I suspect you were badass _before_ the war, _during_ the war, _after_ the war… even the tentacle bastards had to freeze you to stop you. Me? Three _months_ in Afghanistan nearly did me in. If I were alone in there, it would have ended even faster!”

Yakov shakes his head in quiet disagreement. He would very much want to kill the one who placed this insecurity in his sunshine’s mind _again_, but, sadly, he’d have to resort to dark magical arts to do so due to the fact that the man was already dead.

“In Afghanistan you did good, Antosha. For a man with no specialized training, you did excellent. And it would not be entirely right to compare… modern wars are different. Terrifying in their own right, but not the same.”

Tony smiled. What he loved about his Soldier was the honesty. Yakov continued:

“In your situation, though, we would have done pretty much the same: plan, create opportunity, break free, destroy, escape… Andrei, probably, would additionally steal a car. Gustav, most certainly, would leave no man alive…”

“Scary, that man…”

“He is… as you Americans say, he fights like he drives.”

Tony’s smile turned into a mischievous grin. That wasn’t how the saying went, otherwise they’d have to ask Uncle Mitya for info and that would have been all shades of awkward. Not because of the topic, no! The genius had an inkling the man would actually answer... a direct hit in the eye, not a graze to the brow.

Because the tanks were positioned front-to-front, nearly brushing cannons like doves brush beaks in affection, the sailor brothers made an improvised tent fort for them with a few boards used as props, while still managing to save enough canvas to keep the vehicles covered. The bedrolls were unrolled and strategically placed all over the place, someone made a small hearth out of a metal case and a couple of bricks and Uncle Mitya busied himself with cooking. It wasn’t bland stew this time – now they had some trophy rations to spice up their food with.

While dinner was slowly becoming more and more tangible, the rest of the crew studied the scavenged guns and other equipment pieces: while the general concept was intuitively familiar, there were still additions that did not make much sense to the severe men from the 40s… like the laser-controlled aimer. The gun already had an aiming prop - why install another one and one that could give away your position at that? Morgan was happy to explain. It was a little strange to see a seven year old girl lecturing a bunch of grown men about modern weapons development and them listening to her every word… even Gustav, who was in the train cabin, working both roles and listening to the lecture through Tony’s starkphone. But the strangeness of the world didn’t really matter, because Morgan was clearly enjoying herself and if she was happy then Tony was happy too.

He finished with the muzzle break just in time for Yakov to approach him with a paper cup of instant coffee. It had at least two full tea spoons of sugar to mask the could-have-been-better taste, but the engineer still took it with a reverent kind of hum, like it was the greatest nectar gods could offer.

“Any news from Miss Potts?”

“As a matter of fact, yes! I do have some,” this perks the engineer up, because yes, he received the first package of data from Pepp just moments before the mercenary attack. “The Accords Committee was very surprised to find out that there are other ‘victims of Hydra’ apart from you and Sargent Barnes. Everett Ross met with Pepp yesterday – to determine what was hidden under the thin vail of diplomacy, and she showed him a list of names – no photos, no personal history, just names – and told him about the nature of the research that was conducted in that facility. Ross left soon after, a little pale around the edges. They’ll arrange a UN hearing in the future I am sure…”

“They will need proof that these names represent real people.”

“Pepp thought about it too. She contacted both the German and Russian Military Archives and placed a request for information on behalf of the UN. The Germans are still thinking, but she got a phone call from one Elza Rihardovna Shpengler… that old lady we bought chocolate and flowers for, remember? Well, she said she doesn’t know how our German friends lived, but she knows how they," Tony makes quote marks with his fingers."_died_.”

Yakov’s eyebrows rise in puzzlement:

“...died?”

“Apparently, to cover their sudden disappearance their names were written among those prisoners of war who were sent to Soviet Russia after the war to perform reconstruction works… and all of them ‘died’ somewhere between 1947-1948: landslide in a mine, hit by a falling tree, died on the way to the asigned labor camp, froze to death… ”

“Ясно… (Understood…)”

“Nobody would look. Nobody would verify. They were right. Nobody did,” Tony turned even more serious. “There is going to be a lot of prejudice thrown our way at that hearing, Red October.”

“More than was thrown our way at _mine_?”

Oh, Tony remembered that… he could only call what happened on that afternoon a 'shit show', because the UN sanctioned prosecutor asked every, _every, _inappropriate question he could think of and expected Yakov to answer each and every one. Yakov did, because he swore on the Bible that he would, but Tony, who was sitting on the witness bench, could feel the bond going cold, then turning icy, then there was an invisible barbed wire hugging his wrist…

Five seconds of pure inner agony, and then poof! Nothing. His light didn’t close the bond from his side – no matter how bad it got, he never did that, not after those long odd years of separation – and it took Tony an embarrassingly long amount of time to figure out that he, technologically speaking, changed the frequency, letting one of the many past lives flash through. The prosecutor, who was in the middle of an accusing speech, made a mistake of looking up into Yakov’s eyes… and choked.

The words just wouldn’t leave no matter how hard he tried to push them out! And the Head Judge used the opportunity to stear the hearing onto a different topic…

“That would be a record worthy achievement,” Tony allowed himself a wry smile. “I’m more afraid of the global society letting all the Nazi dogs loose on our German friends than anything else. The Russian Federation will certainly back up the former Red Army soldiers, but who’ll back up Jager and his guys? Germany sure as heck won’t - they’re too afraid of being labeled as fascist supporters again.”

“You really looked into the problem, Antosha.”

“I had a lot of time on my hands. Plus, you know, how good at multitasking I am, sugarplum!”

“Indeed I do…” the Soldier sounded pleased.

“And there is also the problem of citizenship. Thanks to you, being the pioneer in the issue, it would be infinitely easier to get the Russian one. The German one? I have no idea. They still haven’t as much as texted Pepper.”

“Germany is not an independent country now, yes? A part of a Union. They need to discuss the matter among themselves first.”

“Oh, baby, the EU is no USSR – it’s gonna’ take them months to reach a consensus! Democracy and its ‘everyone has a right for a debate’ policy be damned…” Tony sighed. “And Manfred said we can stay at his, but he also said he is afraid there is not much left of that house… castle, he said it’s a castle.”

“He _is_ a baron. In Germany of old if you are an aristocrat, with a name and family history several centuries long, you always had a castle. The state of that castle could be very questionable, however, because many of those aristocrats were absolutely bankrupt by the end of the 19th – the beginning of the 20th century…”

“The industrial revolution did them in, didn't it?”

“Among other things.”

“Have you seen that castle?”

“I fear none of us has, except for his soulmate.”

“Oh?”

“He left it to him through a deed of gift.”

Baron Manfred Weiss-Klausevitz knew he wasn’t coming back and, apparently, he also wasn’t one of those ‘love them and leave them’ types, so he gave his mate the only thing he had that wasn’t Nazi issued – his status and family history.

“…do you know who it is?”

“I have seen his mark, yes.”

“And?”

“Music related.”

Music, huh. Just how big of a coincidence could that be… he could come up with _one_ music affiliated name right off the bat, but things like these just don’t happen. Or do they?

Yasha, though, had other ideas. Ever the strategist, he was constantly playing chess parties with himself inside his own mind… and he liked seeing his assumptions come true. He caught Tony staring and allowed the enigmatic grin to show:

“На что спорим? (What is your wager?)”

“A bet, huh? Well, your on!” the engineer finished his coffee in one decisive gulp. “How about… no coffee for a month?”

“My sunshine is serious!” the grin got wider, adopting a leery edge. “That I like… but if I wager not to cook for a month, I fear we will have a problem.”

And Tony punched him in the shoulder – the gal of this man! Insinuating things… even if they were true. He’ll do his best! The watch gauntlet unfolds in reaction to his subconscious offence, and metal meets metal with a soft, almost melodic chime.

“Corn flakes won’t kill you!”

“No, but the daily calorie intake? That might suffer.”

“No joking with the calorie intake when you are a super-soldier.”

“Afraid not.”

“And I’ve never seen you eat more than an average Joe.”

“A trick you learn early on – how to survive on the brink of starvation…”

“You mean I had you half-starved all this time?!” Tony is shocked… and furious, and wants to sock him into next week… several times! The bond flared like fireworks, and Yakov realizes his mistake.

“No, Antosha! Never… _never _think that! I wanted to say that I do not really need to eat a lot, sometimes even less than you do, because the ‘super’ parts of me do not really require it… and are more _efficient_ in nutrition distribution."

"Different compound?”

“Different compound.”

“Don’t you _ever_ scare me like that again…”

“To be fair to us, it would not have influenced my performance much… me being _a little_ hungry."

“… and don’t tempt me into smacking you harder! Insufferable man…”

“Ha!”

“Aha!”

***

With nightfall all movement stopped. Partly, due to exhaustion finally catching up, partly, due to the absence of headlights on the Oldman, partly, due to a million of other reasons, probably, one of them being fuel economy, but Gustav pulled the brakes.

Once the locomotive settled down, there were moments when everybody was deafened by the quiet, until simpler, more natural sounds crept in: a cricket here, a night bird there, a gust of wind caught in the leaves, shuffling… mice (or other small animals) doing the same in the high grass, going about their tiny mousy business…

“Хорошо-то как! (Feels so good!)” Andrei Ivolgin crawled over to the edge of the platform, plucked a blade of grass and bit into it with gusto. “Тьфу ты, гадость какая… (Ugh, tastes awful…)”

“Так выплюни (Spit it out then),” Rudolph Jager shot him an amused glance, fingers playing with a slim brown cigarette from a trophy pack. Something southern… from someplace across the ocean, perhaps… still not his preferred brand. He had a sinking feeling that the company went bankrupt sometime over the years.

“У-у, Руди злой, когда не пыхтит своей трубкой, да, Руди? (U-u, Rudy is mean when he is not smoking his pipe, right, Rudy?)”

“Да! И мне совсем не стыдно (Yes! I’m not ashamed of it at all),” a few moments of silence between them, and then Jager asks: “Почему ты не спишь? (Why aren’t you asleep?)”

“Не спится… (Not feeling like it…)”

“Просто так? (Just out of the blue?)”

“Может, я бабайки боюсь… (Maybe, I’m afraid of the boogey-man…)”

Jager leaves the cigarette alone and looks at his soulmate. They had been lying side by side in an improvised nest made out of two sleeping bags under Dietrich’s impressive bulk. Cozy, if a bit dark…

“Андрюша… (Andryusha…)”

“Чего? (What?)”

“Иди сюда. И хватит бегать. (Come here. And stop running.)”

Andrei grumbles some curses, which are not directed at him and lack the intended bite, and crawls back in. Once he is near, Jager pulls him into a bear hug and smirks in the dark, because the first few moments it almost feels like he is hugging a wooden pole. Slowly, always slowly, his Russian relaxes into it, hugs him back, and has no idea what to do with his arms or how to intertwine their legs…

This is the farthest they’ve ever went.

In a life so very far away the future Lieutenant Ivolgin was more interested in tanks than girls. Well, future Standartenfuhrer Jager wasn’t much different, but he at least frequented the cabaret from time to time. After they met, though… Manfed was right to call him a monk. Как отрезало (it lost the appeal, period), as Russians would phrase it.

“Rudy?”

“Yes?”

“I only know how to drive tanks, and very little about everything else.”

“It’s okay. If you need time, you will have that time, but do not try to be someone you are not…”

“That’s the problem. I just don’t know,” Andrei fell silent for a moment. “Rudy, we need to start knowing these things about each other… ask me what your favorite candy is and I’m lost!”

“I don’t like candy.”

“At all?!” Andrei sounds disbelieving; he energetically wiggles in Rudolph’s arms until they’re facing each other as much as it is possible in the narrow space, almost lying on top of him as a result. The younger man’s light grey eyes seem to glow in the dark, and the German finds it fascinating. “I don’t believe you.”

“We had chocolate in our rations and I always gave mine away… do _you_ like sweets?”

Ivolgin lowers his head so his chin is now resting on Rudolph's sternum.

“… chocolate candy was always my favorite. We never had many and the few we had were always hidden among the miscellaneous cups, sugar pots and creamers of the beautiful white china set we had… I don't remember how mother came into possession of it, though. Have you known that such beautiful gifts are usually given to newlyweds in Russia? Well, neither did I…"

"So… no father?"

"He wasn't dead, if that what you are thinking. He just had another family with two daughters growing up. I was… maybe fifteen when I met him. There was a fight in school: one of the boys we really didn't get along with called me a 'байстрюк', which is the same thing is calling my Ma a whore… never married, but with a kid… people talked."

"So she decided to show you…" Rudolph couldn't help but feel a pang of admiration for the woman he will never get to know.

"They were walking in the park, the whole family. The wife did not see us, busy with the kids. Schoolgirls, both. He, though, did… so much animosity directed at Ma, at me…" Andrei shook his head. "The first thing I did when we got home, was cart that monster of a china set to the trash bins."

"And my father was an accountant. One of those little clerks no one notices. He, though, thought himself to be one of the big birds… lost his job in the economic collapse of the post-war years. We moved out of the city to live with our grandparents in a village on the other end of the country. My very first time driving a tractor. "

"You? A tractor?"

"We all start somewhere… my brother could not do it himself. You see, Andryusha, he was special, my older brother."

"By special you mean… oh! Oh…"

"Dietrich was twenty five, big and strong, but his mind never moved past the stage of a ten year old. He helped our grandparents around the house: the animals loved him, he never shied away from work, could fix anything! I adored him…"

"And your parents?"

"Father couldn't stand looking at him, blamed mother like it was somehow her fault his eldest was born this way. Mother cried…"

"Rudy…" Andrei was shocked… and heartbroken on his soulmate's behalf. But Jager wasn't done yet - a secret for a secret.

"When Hitler came to power, many things changed. There was no room for the mentally handicapped in this new German future… soulmates had to register, and if your mate wasn't German or was of a _lesser _folk, then you had to report it or turn him or her in…"

"Еперный театр… (My God…)"

"Same sex soul bonds were officially named fruitless, therefore could only be platonic, and if you were caught doing otherwise, you both had all the chances to just vanish one day… and your apartment and your things would be given to other people," Rudolph smirked, memories spiked with old disdain rising closer to the surface. "After school you were obligated to work for the government for six months: gather crops, assist on factories… easy work. They paid you for it, not much, but it was a way to help the family… father was still jobless. When I returned, Dietrich was gone."

"Did you find out who took him?"

"Eventually. Then I just punched the man I called my father square in the jaw, packed a satchel of clothes and left that house for good… joined the army. A high military rank opens many doors, Andryusha, no matter what people might say. As for my brother, they tested experimental medicine on him and others like him. He lasted the longest, because, as I said before, he was big and strong…"

"... the doctor?"

"Car accident. A collision with a milk truck, the driver left the scene… and no one saw a thing."

Andrei nodded. No comments, no unwanted opinion sharing - he understood the concept of vengeance very well and didn’t judge. The next thing he asked, though, was:

“Should we talk about our favorite colors now?”

That's it, thought Jager while trying to hold in the roaring laughter and succeeding only partially, that's why I can't live without this Russian barbarian. An innocent kitten and a wild tiger, coexisting within one soul - how does this even work?

“Let’s talk about _everything_…”

***

The little one called them the Ghost Train.

They crossed the German-Polish border easily - both countries being members of the European Union meant that there were no borders to speak about, only fiction.

While passing through small towns they had to pretend to be a group of German and Russian historical re-enactors, heading to a WWII themed event in Kaliningrad. The event was real. Tony looked it up. He even went so far as leave several dozens of posts on their website. The enthusiasts were very, well, enthusiastic in their reaction to the news that they were bringing a real-tank-Holy-Molly to the show…

And Tony Stark had to shave off his signature beard. Felt like cutting off an arm, honestly. When he looked at his reflection in the makeshift mirror, though…

"Well, hello there, gorgeous! Haven't been seeing _you_ around…" he shows the mirror his left cheek, then his right cheek, then rubs his chin appreciating the smoothness. "God, I feel so _naked _right now… it’s strange. Is it strange?"

Yakov shrugged and wiped the knife he was using as a replacement for a straight razor with a piece of cloth. Manfred who was trying to comb through his shaggy ponytail nearby huffed in mild irritation, before noting:

"You think this is something outstanding - you should have seen me… or your Wolfman after a week in the forest. _That _was a sight for sour eyes…"

"Oh! Tell me, tell me…"

"Antosha."

"What? This should be interesting, because you might laugh, but SI never produced anything resembling sniper gear… apart from, you know, the rifles."

"Where they good? Your rifles?"

"I have no idea… but our bullet-proof vests sure sucked."

"Antosha wasn't the one working on that project. Sadly." Yakov sighed rather theatrically. "If he was, it would have been glorious."

"Oh, stop it… without the beard to shield me I'm going to resemble a fucking poppy in the field if I blush!"

"He-he…"

"Foxy wolf… and we are off track again, and speaking about rifles - my old man tinkered with them personally. Trying to replicate the success of Bucky’s rifle maybe? I don’t know. They’re probably still there, collecting dust."

“Where?”

“At the Mansion. Howard, like any self-respecting engineer, had his own personal workshop. I wasn’t allowed there as a kid, but, you know, where’s a will there’s a way? Yasha was with me then, stood on the look-out… So, Red Baron, who made _your_ rifle?”

“I had a _Mauser_, German built. But you know what? Everybody had a _Mauser_! So I wasn’t special.”

“James could shoot accurately from a _brick_ with the skill he has…” Yakov put away the mirror. “A natural talent, you see: to focus, to estimate, to calculate…”

“So Howard’s gun didn’t really do much?”

“It was a good weapon… made James’s work easier. But give him a Mauser or a Mosin-Nagant and his shooting would be the same.”

And that, Tony thinks, is a constructor’s nightmare: this ‘well, it didn’t really blow my mind’ vibe Yakov was a pro at executing, this jagged-edged professionalism of a professional assassin who could adjust to anything if alternatives equal zero…

“Sugarplum, you’d drive my old man crazy… he always worked to impress, and with you it’s kind of hard.”

“We, my sunshine, seem to understand each other just fine.”

“Well, I don’t try to impress you for one – I just try to give you what you_ need_.”

“Ah, you see? You _already_ impressed me… by not consciously trying to impress.”

Tony opened his mouth to retort, but… closed it, coming up with nothing. Manfred just started laughing. The rest on the guys who heard the whole exchange followed his lead, the shameless bastards. Mitrofan Kirillovich just shook his head, because… children, they were all children in his eyes, who liked to tease and frolic.

“Okay, hot-shot. You win. How do I look, though?”

“What can I say? Beautiful.”

“Not very objective, are we? But, really, you can’t go against the truth…” Tony saw Morgan peeking out of the drivers hatch on Tishka’s front and sent a wink her way; his Little Menace was rocking Andrei’s tanker helmet, had grease smeared across her cheeks and was obviously fixing something up. “Button! Aren’t you a lady? What’s with the war paint?”

She flashes him a toothy grin:

“I’m not a lady! I’m a mechanic!”

“Ri-ight… another couple of years in and you’ll be telling me you hate boys, because they’re stupid.”

“Daddy, you’re very funny… and they are. Stupid, I mean. Uncle Bucky, though, called them differently (here she says something completely untranslatable, but it makes all the Russians stare at her with surprise and, what the heck, a great deal of positive appreciation)… and said I should wear footwear with a reinforced sole to school.”

So their Button was bullied. Tony could relate – he was bullied too, as were (and are currently) lots of kids around the world, who were too smart, too different, too weak…

Yakov’s voice pulls him out of his musings.

“Very good advice… and Arseniy, my student, could teach you how to transform a fountain pen into a stink bomb. Unlike us, century old relics, he got his chemistry degree in the 1980s, while posing as a foreign student in one of the colleges in Japan…”

“Sunny speaks Japanese?!”

“Chinese also. And can draw some beautiful calligraphy… when he feels it.”

“I know about stink bombs, Uncle Yasha.”

“Ah, but not like this…” his Soldier’s tone turned mischievous. “The foul smelling smoke is just a diversion, because the true danger lies within the ‘ink’: immune to 70% of modern soups and detergents, due to the uniqueness of the chemical reaction some of them amplify the smell instead of washing it off, 90% of colognes and antiperspirants amplify it even more…”

“You can wash it off, right?” Tony had a cruel streak in him, sure, but not _that_ cruel.

“Yes, by bleach.”

“Ouch…”

“And if you don’t soup it?” Morgan was clearly interested.

“Then it doesn’t smell… too much. The ‘ink’ is also designed to fade after thirty days of constant exposure to the sun’s ultra violate rays.”

Sunny wasn’t _that_ cruel either – he was just a hell of a lot meaner. A month with no decent shower? You’ll reek like a garbage can all on your own!

“Who’d you try it on?” asked Andrei; the man was leaning against the open hatch on top of his tank’s tower, observing them with clever eyes.

“Arseniy made several pens – his own little project… he wasn’t enhanced then, still on _probation_. He thought I was just another instructor… Hydra was so deep inside the KGB that it _was_ the KGB. His Handler confiscated the pens and later presented them as his own… compact smoke grenades, he said. Didn’t know about the ‘ink’, and after the demonstration all the Hydra high command which made up the committee smelled like they got sprinkled by a hoard of skunks. On the next day it got worse, and on the day that followed worst still…”

“… they fried his brain for it, didn’t they?”

“… yes, they did.”

***

The voyage through Poland left a faul aftertaste in their souls: German, American… Russian .It was like seeing two sides of the same coin: one familiar and real, the other - bitter and absurd. Beautiful old cities, civilization, familiar European politeness… and forgotten, sometimes deconstructed, often _vandalized _monuments and memorials, most of which were also mass graves to Red Army soldiers, who died liberating this country. The media around them dripped with anti-Russian rhetoric on one hand, dripped with pro-NATO proclamations on the other hand while simultaneously begging the EU for more money…

… and then they see a bunch of high-schoolers harass an old man, because he was wearing a two-colored ribbon pinned to the breast pocket of his jacket. Tony didn't know why but it reminded him of those toy-terrier style doggies yaping at Misha that one time they went on an unsupervised walk in the small park near Seva’s house. The conversation between them was in Polish, but Friday helped him translate without much prompting… the phrase 'You did not pin it there, so it is not your place to order me to take it off' made him realize that they are watching a veteran (!) get bullied(!!)!

Hits like whiplash…

Tisha suddenly revved his motor: from zero to full throttle completely out of the blue and in the relative peace and quiet of this provincial railway station it sounded like thunder cracking the sky open. All of the high-schoolers jump at least a foot and a half, losing backpacks and smartphones along with two thirds of their bravery, while the old man just looked up in surprise, more startled than scared… and nearly droped his cane when he saw the platform, the tanks, the locomotive, breathing steam…

"Все в порядке, отец? (Everything alright, old man?)" Andrei is halfway out of the driver-mechanic's hatch, eyes troubled and searching. "Может помочь чем надо? (Maybe we can help you with something?)"

“Что это вы, голубчики, в таком виде-то… (Oh, sonnies, where are you going… suited up like that…)”

“На фестиваль в городе К едем: себя показать, на других посмотреть. (We are going to the festival in K-city: to show a little bit of ourselves and to appreciate the others.)”

“Наслышан-наслышан… (I’ve heard of it, yes…) А под второй простынкой что? (And what’s under the other sheet?) Если не секрет, а то уж больно очертания… специфические. (If it’s no secret, because the shape is... very peculiar.)”

“Покажем. Покажем ведь, Руди? (We can show. We can, right, Rudy?)”

“Ja, wir können. (Yes, we can.)” Jager nods, albeit slowly, steel gray eyes never leaving the veteran on the station platform like he was a venomous snake. “Verdammter Partisan (Damned Partisan)…”

The old man starts laughing good-naturally, leaning heavily on his cane. The kids around him stare at him in shock. Tony’s not far behind.

“Я уж думал, что совсем с ума спятил, ан нет! (And here I thought I was going completely coo-coo, but nope!)” he draws lines on his own cheek with his finger, mimicking the ridges of Jager’s scar; the finger is calloused and doesn’t quite bend the way it should. “Не забудешь. (Hard to forget.)”

“Em, guys? I’m kind of lost here…”

“It is a small world, Stark. And this man blew up my tank… with me on it. In 1943?”

“In 1944,” heavy accented English. “It had some ammunition loaded in, but no fuel. The explosion tore off the tank tower and hurled it into a barn…and the Fritz landed in a hay cart, broke it…”

Now the bulk of them are staring at Rudolph Jager, who just looks mighty pissed. The Polish veteran continues, though, still sticking to that good-natural attitude, which is strange… or, perhaps, not? War brings with it a sense of kinship.

"I am not going to ask you why you look the way you do - television makes sure we know things today. You also did good to avoid big cities - the police know your faces."

"Oh shit!.."

"You are helping us. Why?"

"I could have helped you better if I were younger, but…" another laugh, though this one sounds broken. "Old bones ache… and I don't think I have much time ahead of me. So, Fritz, you have to make it count… this new world does not have room for the likes of you, so don't let them get you."

"... understood."

One of the high-schoolers was frantically tapping something on his phone - Tony caught the messahe and squished it between his virtual fingers before it even left the Samsung, ghosting its electronics in the process. The veteran eyed the disgruntled youth with an unimpressed stare, but said nothing.

They left the station in bit more haste than usual, and when Tony turned around to give the railroad station one last look of farewell he found the man still standing there, following them with calm hard eyes… Tony got a curt nod, when the man noticed him watching, making the genius start with a sudden realization.

The old partisan was guarding their leave.

"Verdammter Partisan…" said Jager again, but it lacked heat. "Now I feel like I owe you one…"

"Why did that boy do that, Daddy?" asked Morgan. Figures that she noticed his fingers twitch.

"I don't know, kid. But it kinda makes my skin crawl…"

"They hate us, Mister Stark."

"Tony."

"... Tony," says Dima from his place under Tishka's cannon. "Simple as that."

"But… _why?_"

"We were (and are) stronger. And their last moment of triumph over us, Eastern barbarians, was very long ago."

"Oh… so it's always deep historically based reasons with you guys, huh?"

The former miner turns sheepish, but only for a moment or two, then the cocky combat engineer is back.

"They hate the Germans too, very much for the same 'deep historical' everything. And the Jews for being wealthier and more successful. Miss Friday told me that there were almost no Polish Jews left after the war - not surprising, because the majority happily outed them to the new authorities along with those who tried to help. I'm Ukrainian, and we lived in Lvov most of my childhood... former Polish territory that land."

"So that man at the station…"

"I guess he was among the relative few who fought. And he isn't Polish. I think he is from Belarus," Dima shakes his head; something in his body language tells the genius that the young man is shaken by the encounter. "Belarusian partisans were notorious…"

Tony recalls their president Lukashenko, the last authoritarian dictator of Europe as he was often called by the press, who unashamedly rubs the fact in the EU's face every day and whom his people lovingly call Bat'ka (Pops), and snorts.

"Still are."

***

Three days and five little towns later they cross the Russian border.

Veterans meet them at each of those five stations, alone and in small groups, men and women, and watch them go, as if participating in a giant relay race. Tony wonders what exactly was the media spewing about them to evoke such deep protest in people so old…

And just like that they become fugitives on the run. Yakov just shakes his head in silent disapproval when he shares this bit of info with him - SHIELD must be desperate to resort to these underhanded tactics, but if you take the big picture into account? It changes nothing.

The Russian border patrol was on to them the minute they crossed that invisible line that separated one land from another. First Tony detected a drone, later, when the tracks took a turn towards the more civilized regions, they were none so subtly followed by two jeeps with colored logos, etched into the sides and hood…

Gustav huffed, as he watched the jeeps jump alongside them like two khaki-colored hares, the drivers probably counting all the bumps of this ride with their backsides, and cranked up the speed. Oldman announced his intentions with a loud whistle to which the jeeps answered with a series of honks… the guys had a sense of humor too.

"There is a train station about 10-15 kilometers from here. As good a meeting point as any."

"I will send a message to our escort."

"Yeah, but don't tell them the _escort_ bit. They'll think of us badly."

Yakov barked out a laugh… and jumped on the roof of the nearest car, scaring the shit out of the patrol team if the loud and creative cursing was any indication. Tony sighes with theatrical exasperation, before dramatically rolling his eyes.

Why does he even bother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pic that inspired the scene with Rudy and Andryusha =))  
https://i.pinimg.com/564x/fb/a6/e3/fba6e3df29a1af43074b23210e0cf9ad.jpg
> 
> Notes of explanation:  
1) байстрюк - is an old Russian word for 'bastard' as in 'a child born out of wedlock', 'illegimate child' and other quite negative meanings.  
2) Еперный театр - opera has nothing to do with this) because it's a substitute for a harsher curse... you know, when kids are around and you're too hyped up with emotions, but don't want to use strong language in front of them? These kinds of situations.  
3) The two-colored ribbon - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ribbon_of_Saint_George


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touch down in New York...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plane that brought them there - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antonov_An-225_Mriya  
When the author was writing this chapter she found out that Antonov Airlines sold the licence and the second half-built plane to the Chinese... =.=   
And to fullfil their air-space launch dreams they just need to pillage the remains of the Buran shuttle from a warehouse in Kazakhstan =.+  
Morbid times...

Four days after the Grand Train Massacre (God, Clint was awful with his nicknames... worse than Tony) Stark, accompanied by his faithful six foot three shadow, pops up in Amsterdam. He is charming in his navy-blue three piece suit and red-tinted shades, brilliant smile and wiseass quip are his weapons of choice. They check in a 5 star hotel, inspect the dams, visit the sites. Social media bursts with pictures from Tony’s Instagram account where Yakov admiring a black tulip is everyone's absolute favorite… as if nothing had happened, including, strangely, the girl.

She wasn't with them anymore.

Five days after the Great Train Massacre a giant cargo plane lands on a private landing strip owned by the Stark International New York branch. Steve is there to witness it land with Rhodey and Sam. He is not Captain America now, he is just… Steve. Clint and Nat are following Tony around Europe, Vision is with Wanda at the Sanctum, studying information about the Infinity Stones…

They’re alone.

And the plane is so big it covers the sun for a second or two and roars like a raging dragon, when it starts its descend. Rhodey, a pilot himself, stares at the metal monster in open delight. Answering Steve’s inquiring glance, the man just can't stop grinning:

“Didn’t know these beauties were still flying! Never seen one outside of a journal picture, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“Famous shit! You read about the Soviet Space Shuttle program? They built a plane just to carry it and the rocket components – 250 tons, man! Makes sense, though, to use it. There is an air show planned for the next weekend. The _Bercuty _are performing, so they probably brought the chopers via this baby… ”

"Chopers?"

"Helicopters, Cap. They perform on helicopters. Oh, look! They're going in!"

For a second there Steve was afraid this Russian metal monster won't fit on the runway, but the pilots were pro's and they nailed it like pro's. The giant did a slow, calculated turn and stilled, closed cargo bay doors aimed towards the aircraft storage warehouses. SI personnel was already rushing towards their guests (and they _were _guests - as if Pepper Potts would allow unchecked yahoo's anywhere near Tony's property), when the doors started their slow opening sequence… and then they see Pepper, flanked by an uncharacteristically serious 'Happy' Hogan, waiting for them a little bit off to the side. She seems nervous for some reason, but masks it well.

"Should we go meet them too?" Sam was on the verge of fiddling with his sweat-shirt string ties. "Or will it be too much?"

"For you? Or for them?"

"For all of us! Do you know how I got the message that they crossed American airspace? Modest Eduardovich got another stroke!"

“Oh my God… did you call an ambulance?”

“No, I called Doc Strange, because it wasn’t heart related, it was bond related. That thing was good as dead for almost 75 years – it’s like an old motor you try to kick start without as much as a baseline check… every twitch gives you grief! And the man, despite how lively he seems, is _not_ young.”

Steve thought about his own mark, faded and grey, but he couldn’t help wondering: what would it feel like if Howard were alive when they dug him out of the ice? Just as painful? Something else? Bonds are unique after all…

“Are they at the Compound? If they are, then I’m sure…”

“Actually, Cap, they’re here. Inside the building, I mean,” Sam gestured at some vague place over his right shoulder. “Doc said proximity will help…”

“Oh…”

But Sam must have underestimated this Modest Eduardovich fellow, because first Steve picks up sounds of commotion, then sounds of a brief yet heated argument and lastly what sounded like a glass door being tugged open. A man is slowly making his way toward where Pepper and Happy are standing. His hair is white with age, his shoulders are down and he is leaning on his cane _hard, _but all of this does not seem to matter, because his eyes a locked on the slowly opening cargo doors and the veritable storm of emotions Steve finds there almost makes him look away…

A man jumps out of the plane. Lands in an easy crouch… tall, lanky, sickly pale… twitchy, as he surveys his surrounding. Steve has time to take in the familiar shaggy ponytail, when the man… when _Manfred_ is on the move again. The German noticed the lonely figure of his soulmate in the distance, abruptly straightens up and God, how can a human move so fast… even for a super soldier.

They meet somewhere in the middle, because like hell would Modest Eduardovich stop now… it can literally kill him, but he'll keep going forward… They claw at each other in desperation, tears running down cheeks. At some point Manfred falls to his knees, buries his face in Modya's middle while the man in question just… breaks down completely: he is angry and wants to hit and punch, he is happy and wants to hug and kiss, screams are drowned in sobs, curses come out mixed with words of love… he ends up doing both. And Manfred just stays put and takes it. Only his arms around Modya tighten, as he mumbles confessions of his own…

No one really expects what happened next. Well, perhaps, Doctor Strange would if he were present, but he wasn't, so when the air around the old veteran started going blurry, and he himself stilled as if in a daze…

Steve was running before he registered what he was doing. Sam and Rhodes were hot on his heals, and all three of them nearly collided with another group of people, who were watching transfixed from this side of the glass.

"Смотри куда прешь, дубина! (Watch where you're going, you lummox!)" the sharp end of a cane is shoved in Steve's stomach and only his super-human reflexes save him from barreling straight into it. "Понаехали тут! (Running around like you own the place!)"

"Whoa! Sorry, but could you… move?"

"If you disturb them, Mister Rogers, my old friend might die…" a calm accented voice cuts through the chaos of the moment, startling him out of his agitation. "Are you absolutely _sure_ you want to charge in there and face the consequences, because if you do…"

The pause that follows is rather ominous, and the Captain suddenly recalls _who_ he is speaking to. He saw them once or twice at the Compound (they came to pick up Sam a few times and always stuck to the driveway, despite Wilson's insistent invitations), and it was that same Sam 'Falcon' Wilson who introduced him to the concept of Yakov’s friends: the musician, the general, the KGB agent…

"Borya, you remember you are not thirty anymore, right?" the general was holding back a laugh. The agent makes a sound resembling a huff.

"Does not mean I forgot how it is done. Might have enough in me for one last hit…"

"No teeth, but I'll nimble you to death – is that your strategy?"

“…why am I friends with you?”

“Modya would tell you, but he is a little occupied…”

“Hm.”

“So you know what’s happening, then,” Colonel Rhodes took the conversation into his own hands. Both Russians nodded, albeit very carefully.

“The magician said something like this might occur…” with the animosity gone Mister Boris Chernov registered on Steve’s radar just like any other old man. “He also said bonds are about balance, about graduate exchange, about union. In my dear friend’s case, though, this delicate balance was broken and now, when the floodgates are once again opened, figuratively speaking…”

“… it’s all rushing in,” Rhodey turned to look at the pair. Manfred was not on his knees any longer and all but curled around his mate, trying to sooth, trying to quiet… The strange blurry effect was gone, but from their angle it was impossible to see much: only Modya’s white hair, tickling Manfred’s chin with unruly locks, the rest was effectively blocked by the tall broad-ish frame of the Prussian, but the Colonel still managed to notice… he had absolutely no idea what to call them, honestly… shifts? changes? transformations? trans-fucking-mutations?

Fingers holding onto Manfred's shirt didn't belong to an old man - they looked young… well, _younger_ than they should on a man on the wrong side of ninety. Also Mister Yavorski was standing all on his own, while just an hour ago the man could barely walk, much less walk without aid.

"It's not just the bond straightening itself out, is it?" Steve, being a super-soldier, clearly saw more than Rhodey ever would.

"Oh, so you _are_ smarter than you look!" the old agent threw a smirk his way. "Pardon my crassness, we have a lot of stereotypes about blonds in Russia…"

Steve answers with a wane smile, thinking that yeah and who doesn’t… People seem to forget you needed smarts to survive on Brooklyn streets in the 40s and while he, maybe, wasn’t as suave with his environment as Bucky had been, but he still knew things. The old Russian saw right through him: Brooklyn, street smarts, alley fights – the whole bundle… he saw it and _smiled_. It was a very knowing smile, and the American caught himself wondering had what kind of childhood this man had… _before_. Whatever it was, though, it for certain wasn't pretty…

"What Borya here wants to say is… you know how soulmates can bind each other's lives one to another?"

"... whoa!"

"But won't that mean…" Sam frowned at the sudden guess.

"If I die you die?" general Chijicov snorted, but it was a rather humorless sound.

"... yeah, that."

“That is why these things are not widely practiced or, rather, not practiced at all. I, for one, know only one trustworthy case… and it was the Zimin family.”

Now all the attention is on Sidor Anatolyevich, who instantly puffs up like an angry owlet, and says:

“Somebody had to go there and tell them! But Borya was in Berlin, Modya – healing up in a hospital after a serious leg injury… he started using a cane shortly after… so the mission fell onto me. Took me a week to get to Irkutsk, and another day to simply man up to knock on that gate… when I, finally, knocked they were already waiting for me: his parents, his sisters and his younger brother Vsevolod. And you know what? I didn’t have to tell them _anything_, because _somehow_ they already knew…”

“His father… what was he like?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to meet him, boy… you think, Yakov Igorevich has metal for character, but _that man_ is where he got that metal character from. But back to our topic: I saw him in 1946, and for a man born in the 1860s, he looked, well, good… not much older than his wife actually. You see, she was nineteen when they found out they’re fated mates in 1908, it took him two years to win her over and that joy turned out to be very short-lived, because in 1914 the First World War broke out…”

“You mean, she _hooked_ her life to his?!”

“No, she ‘hooked’ his life to hers - to pull him along… they passed away in the 1970s… together, just like they lived… that Prussian cornstalk did the same just now – twined his life around Modya’s, and since he is a super-soldier, our pianist got a significant health boost… and some extras.”

“So… he’s young again.”

“Not much younger than you, Mister Rogers, not much younger than you… ” the old agent tapped his temple to emphasize the point. "The body might have changed, but here - he is still that ninety-five year old coot…"

"Mister Chernov?" Eric interrupts them. "They're about to come out…"

The former Captain was, perhaps, the only one who wasn't watching the long overdue reunion. If he did, he'd have another reunion come forth from the depths of his mind - the very same that broke his life in two. That Afghani anti-tank mine was the lesser evil in the story: when he signed up for that ‘last’ tour, he knew that something like this had a 70% chance of happening, because armored vehicles were _always_ primary targets in _every_ skirmish…

He just didn’t imagine it happening quite like this: with a BANG on a road that was safe only yesterday.

He lost his legs, but saved, maybe, four or five lives, when he dropped his dying Abrams in a way that provided at least _some_ cover for the Humvee full of troopers that followed suite… the same troopers who later, risking their lives, pried him out of that metal coffin that was the tank driver seat and got him to safety. What happened to the rest of his crew, he found out only a week later, _after_ three surgeries in the field hospital and a flight to Germany for three more. They didn't make it… were shot like sitting ducks, while trying to escape the burning machine through the tower hatch…

It’s the scene in the state airport he’ll never forget: Scott is looking for him, Scott sees him and Scott walks away.

Sasha Chijikov, in this regard, was… different, a different experience. The man, a solid stocky build opposed to Scott’s partner-in-a-law-firm sleekness, worked counterterrorism and the way he lost his arm? Eric can only call it heroic.

The guy took a bus of school kids hostage, used them to get to a bank and tried robbing it. Somebody triggered the alarm. At some point the plan went sideways (Sasha was laughing when he told this part), the guy drops an armed hand grenade and Chij is the closest to _it_… and the half open vault, so he grabs the grenade, shoves the hand inside the vault and holds the doors shut. Boom! No arm. But no kids died, and the guy responsible got apprehended, so his arm was the only casualty. Crazy, you might say, and yet he found _Eric_ fascinating. Of all things.

The legendary T-34 is the first to roll out, showing off the new paint job - somebody renewed the wings and the star: neither look worn nor faded. Down the gangways, forward two body lengths, a graceful turn on the spot and the driver hit reverse, easily getting the tank out of the way. Eric could only admire his control over the machine - he moved as if he _was _the machine.

The Panther is a lot more imposing when it leaves the plane. Must be the long cannon with that distinctive muzzle brake and the predatory striped camouflage… but if Eric were the gambling type, he'd bet on the white and black beam cross painted on the side of the tower, a tribute to whom the tank belonged (and continues to belong) - the German Wehrmacht.

The driver-mechanic led the machine down, forward, but he didn’t turn or perform any other maneuvers - just parked the Panther a little bit to the side. Their cannons were facing different directions and Eric with a pang realized what they were doing - they were protecting each other's back. Doveryay, no proveryay (Trust, but verify), like Sidor Anatolyevich likes to say…

Step two was unloading the helicopters, so to face the rest of the crew they had to wait another hour. In the meanwhile Manfred and Modya, no longer hugging, just standing in each other's space very-very close, were approached by Miss Potts, and they were surprised to see Manfred effortlessly slip into the baron-at-the-summer-ball persona, aristocratic mannerisms cutting off all the personal like a miniature guillotine.

"She is asking about Mister Stark," Mister Chernov could read lips; no surprise there. "The Prussian said that after a day's rest at a military base in Kaliningrad, they split ways: Yakov and Tony flew to Amsterdam, while they let themselves be smuggled here. Miss Potts inquired if they needed anything like food, shower and, maybe, sleep. He answered, that it would be much appreciated, but it is also not urgent: they finished the rations, caught a few winks during the flight and they really don't want to impose… Morgan, though, needs something decent. For a seven year old she weathered the circumstances of this journey like a true soldier, but _we are not at war, so it would be unjust to push her any further."_

"He said that?"

"Word for word."

"She is with the others then…"

"I don't think so… if she's anything like Tones, she'll be near the coolest peace of tech available."

"... the pilot' cabin?!"

"Nah… one of those chopers!"

But the little Stark showed them… like Mother Goose leading her (potentially murderous) ducklings across the road into the new world on the other side, she was the first to jump down those metal steps. Her Dora the Explorer backpack had seen better days, as well as her jeans and baby-blue windbreaker, but she had a certain bounce to her gate that screamed ‘Come on! I want to show you everything!’. The men following her out onto the runway did nothing to discourage her enthusiasm – they seemed to trust her enough to guide them… and all had packs of their own hanging down shoulders. All, except two.

One was looking a bit green in the face (air sick?) and was all but hanging off the other’s arm, not that the other minded the additional weight very much. They were both about the same in height and had about the same build, but that's where the similarities ended. Auburn versus chestnut brown, cold grey versus clear blue… fox versus a hunter's hound. The one playing the role of a human crutch also had very distinctive scars marking the right side of his face…

Eric had to make an effort to stop his eyes from going saucer wide, had to remind himself that he helped fend off an alien invasion, because… it was the man from the video! The German tanker! But if he was the German tanker, this must mean the other man…

“… his soulmate, yes,” Sasha materialized by his side, slotting himself into Eric’s personal space with practiced ease; a lot about their friendship was ‘practiced ease’ along with a long list of trials and errors, because both of them had _far_ too many jagged edges to resemble any sort of puzzle pieces. Except for… you know, the _weird_ ones?

“I said it aloud, didn’t I?”

“Nope. I am just that good…”

“In mind games?” Eric couldn’t resist poking the bear… a little bit.

“Nope,” the man was outright smiling at him now, that daring boyish smile that made him slightly weak in the knees. “Just in body language interpreting and that man right there? He believes in the guy holding him upright enough to let him actually support him…”

"Why do you think so?"

"Well, I know my Granpa, for one. The only time I've seen him cry was at Grandma's funeral five years ago and even _then_ those were silent tears…" Sasha fell silent for a few moments. "Secondly, he is hardly over twenty and already a Lieutenant, which means a commander of a tank and responsible for the lives of four people, who might not know him or who might not respect him, because in their eyes he is no more than a puppy thrown into the fray straight out of the tank school classroom..."

"Oh…"

"That German is the same: more training, more combat experience, but even in his case respect, reputation and the absence of weakness mean a lot. Did you know that we used to live in East Germany?"

"You did?" that Eric didn't know. "That's why you speak English so well?"

"German too, because I went to a local school instead of a specialized one… the point, though, is that I had the opportunity to meet those veterans too. Our neighbor was one, actually… and I had no idea until his shepherd got into a nasty habit of stealing our newspapers and father sent me there with a letter of complaint," Sasha smirked. "My dad was a rather posh fellow… for an engineer at a nuclear plant. So I went, knocked on the door and got my first eyeful of personal tragedy: Herr Gunter had only one arm and one leg. Later when he invited me over for tea and I saw the old photographs on the fireplace mantle, he just outright told me he lost the arm during the battle for Stalingrad (undertreated bullet wound led to infection that later led to gangrene) and the leg during his war prisoner days in Russia (frostbite)… can a man in his age and state wrangle a young energetic German shepherd? Highly unlikely, so I manned up and asked him if I could walk his dog in exchange for tutoring in the art of German language, because the accent I had then… whew! Made all my teachers cringe. The genuine surprise on his face I will never forget… "

"Well, you did the most sensible thing…"

"Yes, because I was taught this way. Germans don't really do that… not like us. They respect their elderly plenty and the government takes care of them, but for grandchildren to just pop up with an unplanned visit or to just come and help clean up the garage… didn't see much of that. Herr Gunter was absolutely and utterly alone… "

"…that is not the end, is it?"

"Nope," they watched the soldiers assemble into a semblance of order: both tanker's ended up in the head of the improvised column, where former Wehrmacht aligned behind the man known as Jager and the former Red Army - behind his Lieutenant mate. As they walk to the main building, they subconsciously choose a familiar rhythm of a march. "It ended hilariously. My grades started to rise, father's suspicions rose with them, because never have I ever spoken German with a German accent, the heck is that possible, eh? The only one who was genuinely happy was Fritz - that beast of a dog was having a whale of a time pulling me through all the bushes in the neighborhood! And he only responded to one type of commands - given in a Russian - German mix ten year old kids shouldn't really know how to pronounce… Herr Gunter picked up some Russian while he felled timber in Siberia and you can guess what Russian that was…"

Now Eric was gaping at him, happenings on the runway forgotten, not knowing what to do: to laugh or… to laugh harder.

"…you didn't!"

"You bet I did! And my dad heard it, unfortunately. Imagine the situation! Morning, a few hours after dawn, perfect moment to savor a cup of coffee before work… and then you hear (Sasha makes his voice sound squeaky) '_Fritz, тудыть твою растудыть да через колено, halt! (Fritz, wreck you sideways and over the knee, stop!)"_

Eric imagined it… and cracked up laughing.

"Oh man!"

"I came home with leaves sticking out of interesting places after Fritz dragged me through two new bushes, and WHAM! I get the first scandal of my life and get grounded to boot. But I can't leave Herr Gunter hanging like that - we're brothers in arms! So I started setting my alarm to 5 am, sneaking out, sneaking in, ditching football practice during the day, grades start sliding back down, but like hell I'm quitting. Herr Gunter tried talking to my dad twice, I think… convince him to un-ground me at least, but judging by his grim expression it didn't go well… dad wasn’t keen on duking it out one on one, still thinks fighting is for people of a lesser mind. Freaks Grandpa out almost constantly… I honestly don't know what he rambled out to Grandpa about our _situation, _but one moment I think the old man is orchestrating some complex war games somewhere on the other end of the country and can't make it even for Christmas, the second - I, with Fritz still on the leash, bump into him in front of our house!"

"Oh shit…"

“He looked haggard like he hadn't slept several days, still in his dress uniform, but above all he looked mighty pissed… so I man up again, jump in front of the dog and scream (the squeaky voice made a comeback) 'Дедушка, он тут не причём! Это я во всем виноват! (It’s all my fault, Granpa! The dog has nothing to do with it!)'... it was pure chaos for a few seconds there, until Herr Gunter hobbled out to investigate the noise… he was in the infantry during the war, something akin to a Drill Sargent, and still had it in him, you know, that _Drop and give me twenty! _voice?"

Oh Eric knew… better than most, being the nearly constant target of said yelling during his basic training days. He didn’t take advantage of the ‘don’t ask/don’t tell’ policy when enlisting and wrote the hard won truths about himself as they were. Sasha, in the meantime, continues with the tale:

"So he barks out a what-heck-is-going-on-here adding some rather strong Russian cuss words to the mix, we both jump in surprise, Fritz starts woofing… and Grandpa suddenly understands that something is horribly wrong here. All three of us end up having tea with biscuits while I ramble about our stand-off with dad and Herr Gunter fills in the blanks (that weren't that many – me memory was like a death trap for inappropriate things back then)," Sasha smiled, albeit sadly. "You know, Eric, it was epic! Grandpa thanked Herr Gunter for the tea, marched out… and returned five minutes later, dragging dad along with him _by the ear. _That is why I never went to him with my problems… either sorted them out myself or went to Grandpa. He’d always have a place on the couch for me… a corner where one could rest and regroup…"

“And I just went to the park.”

“This big one in New York?”

“Yeah. There was this bench facing the pond. You know, when things got particularly dark, I used to go there, later wheel there and feed the ducks.”

“I am sorry your special place was… desecrated.”

“He should be happy it wasn’t the metal arm.”

“Well, I am left-handed actually, so I’d say the package was delivered in full.”

“But I saw you write with your right hand!”

“Results of the soviet educational system,” Sasha Chijikov turned sheepish. “It made me ambidextrous… sort of.”

“Can you tell me what happened next? With Herr Gunter…”

“Well, I finished school. We patched up my German debacle, started working on my English nightmare – neither of us spoke the language, so we started learning it together. Fritz, even as he got older, remained true to his trickster nature, but this time round I was strong enough to rile him in… most of the time. Grandpa visited too. They even organized a meeting between the two veteran communities… that part of the community who lived in the GDR, at least. I’ve done the bulk of the interpreting and boy, were the first few hours awkward, but they pulled through! Even found some humor in it all… Herr Gunter passed away when I started my first year of university. I never cried so hard in my life.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss...”

“He said if he still had his medals he’d leave them with me, for safe keeping... but all I got was good old Fritz along with a bunch of his hell spawn children.”

Wow, so Sasha had dogs back home. _Where_ was his home by the way? Eric never asked.

"I should have asked you…"

"... where I live? It's okay. I never told. Maybe because it is nothing fancy. New York is fancy! And my tiny two-bedroom apartment in Novgorod sure is not. I couldn't even fix a leaky faucet… until recently."

Eric huffed (the New York he knew was anything but fancy) and told him that in _Ohio_, where he was initially from, they had very different definitions of cool.

"Ohio?"

"I'm a corn farmer's son. Worked the fields since I was able to reach the gas and brakes pedals on the tractor, you know?"

"Then it is officially settled! You are more than ready to face the hardships of provincial Mother Russia."

"Are you inviting me to fix your leaky faucet, Mister Junior?"

The grin and eyebrow wiggle he got were only a tiny step away from screaming obscene.

"Yes, Mister Handsome American Tanker. I am. Now go and check your visa!"

Eric just started laughing again.

"Yes, sir!"

***

"My name is Rudolph Jager and this is Andrei Ivolgin, my brighter half… It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Potts, for we have heard… stories. Mister Stark also sends his most gentle regards… and promises of shoes. Whatever that meant…"

The beautiful woman standing in front of them just rolls her eyes in mild exasperation at Stark's antics, but they notice the fond undercurrent behind the gesture.

"The pleasure is mine. And don't believe all Tony says…"

"Oh?"

"I really don't kill people with my heels."

"So everything else is true then?"

Pepper answered with a smile that could only be called enigmatic. It could mean nothing… and everything. Because while they made sure to read about Stark International, its projects and policies, including the topic of the company's illustrious CEO Virginia 'Pepper' Potts, she most certainly read about them… it was she who bullied the German National Archives into giving them their personal files, and Germans indeed had papers for everything.

They had a lot of interesting moments while reading about each other. It was a way to spend the time – that military base that provided housing had little to offer in the ways of entertainment and because it was a _military_ base above all else they tried not to mingle with the locals too much, to not _distract_ them from their jobs. But it was still good to find out the seemingly insignificant like Uncle Mitya never going to school, or the Sergeenko brothers lacking a birth certificate, or Manfred Weiss-Klausevitz having an actual Olympic gold medal in fencing. Some nuances, though, were very controversial. For instance, how could a man who sucked at math (and Jurgen's school grades on the subject were shockingly awful) have a nearly 100% killing ratio? Forty eight out of fifty, and forty of those tanks were instant kills meaning the young man was aiming _specifically_ to detonate the ammo…

Food for thought.

“Mister Klausevitz said that you don’t require immediate rest.”

“And he is right.”

“But what _do_ you require?”

“We are here for the hearing that Mister Stark is sure to happen sooner rather than later. What results will it bring? We don’t know, but as soon as it is over…”

“You are leaving.”

“This new world is very strange, Miss Potts. Living in a castle would do us good.”

During the whole conversation Morgan was hiding behind Andrei’s legs, stealing glances at Pepper from under his arm: a little shy, a bit frightened and very curious, playing a game of ‘find ten differences’… and finding them.

This was _not_ her mother.

Pepper nodded in understanding, because she walked this road with Tony, then she watched him walk this road alone with the Avengers... until James, until Sunny, until _Yakov_. From that moment on _Tony’s_ group of people only grew - he wasn't alone anymore.

"I should probably warn you. We are not the only meeting committee you will be facing."

"Oh, we know…" Jager quirked the corner of his lips in a tiny smile. "We heard many interesting things about Colonel Rhodes too."

And again Pepper has to smile that corporate smile, reserved for annoying board members only. Rudolph Jager is difficult to fool, though.

"There is no need to be polite, Miss Potts. It is going to get only worse from here…" Andrei frowned and elbowed him in the ribs. "What? It is only the truth."

"You could have phrased it differently, придурок (jerk)."

"Yes, but I didn't really want to."

"Why I put up with you again?"

"Good question."

The others must have gotten tired on their bickering, because Andrei was suddenly hit on the head with a rolled up newspaper and Jager got a very painful looking jab between the shoulder blades. When both turned around to investigate (and retaliate), they came across nine equally narrowed stares, which could only be interpreted as 'get a move on, you sickos!'

“… fine, I’ll support the democracy in our group… for now. Miss Potts, would you show us around?”

“With pleasure, and we’ll start with… the cafeteria!”

Morgan sealed the deal by jumping out in the open with a happy shout of:

“Hurray!”

***

Colonel James Rhodes thought he would be prepared to face former Nazi soldiers (_real _former Nazi soldiers, not those neo-Nazi shits that gave him and Tony grief in college), but truth be told…

The near constant staring was giving him the creeps. He was sure he managed to keep his bewilderment behind the patented Tony-proof poker face, but it also made a twisted sort of sense that _someone_ will always notice…

The overly straight back. The tension in the shoulders. The forced down scowl.

Yeah, he was not subtle at all.

"You will have to excuse them, Colonel Rhodes," a man appeared by his side; late forties, wise grey eyes, a trimmed, but very much present beard. Rhodey heard others call him Uncle Mitya, always with respect and gruff sort of care. "They are not trying to offend you. It is… this is their first time seeing a truly _black_ man."

"Um… I honestly don't know how to answer that."

"Gustav… is better with this problem, because of his job… from before."

And Rhodes remembers the locomotive and the steam, sweat and grime that come with it.

"Let me guess… coal dust?"

"Oh!" the Russian smiled. "You saw. Tony said you might, we hoped you might. If you saw, this means that man saw it too…"

"You mess with the girl - you mess with us, huh?"

"You had gangsters in America. We were speaking a language you are sure to understand, yes?"

And just like that the metaphorical hit _suddenly_ came from a direction he wasn’t expecting – James could only stare. But he shook off the uncomfortable feeling of surprise rather quickly and launched a counter attack of his own.

"You don't seem to have this problem."

"We always had Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin, and he isn't exactly white."

Who is this Pushkin guy, Rhodey didn't know. He studied aircraft engineering, not Russian literature… at least he suspected this name had something to do with Russian literature…

Friday saved him from total embarrassment by popping a holographic image of a young man dressed according to early XIX century fashion, with distinctive dark curly hair and a facial type you often see in mixed families.

"Wow… his father?"

"Grandfather. Went by the name Hannibal, if I remember correctly..."

"Huh."

"Jager… While fighting on the western front he had seen… plenty."

“Where didn’t he fight… How much war does a man possibly need…”

The Russian smiled again and said:

“In Africa. He didn’t fight in Africa. His tank brigade marched through France, Poland and straight over the soviet border…”

“How did he end up on the Western front then?”

“They had to reform his tank brigade twice - what returned from Russia couldn’t be called a brigade anymore. Then in 1944 your comrades disembarked on the shores of Normandy and they threw in their best men to close the breach… Gustav was there…”

“He is your… mate?”

“One might say that… he is mine and I am his… he was with me and I was with him. If we had to kill, we did it quickly… Colonel Rhodes?”

“Mm?”

“Have tea with us. We brought some treats from home… authentic and non-perishable.”

“Are you sure?”

“You are Tony’s friend, no? You can take on anything! Including a few harmless glares…”

The next thing he knew strong hands landed on his shoulders and all but steered him towards the big common table. It was already set. Standard issue, but it looked nice and neat: white table cloth, plates, cups, napkins… the infamous German pedantry at work. In the middle of the table, taking center stage, stood a large bowl filled to the brim with… well, they looked like rings, big ones you could hold in one hand and tiny, almost bite sized ones. Again Friday came to his rescue, explaining that the tiny ones are called ‘bubliki’, while the larger ones are known as ‘baranki’ and both were, essentially, just baked rings of sweet dough… or any kind of dough, because Rhodey saw several kinds of treats in that bowl, including chocolate flavored ones.

Morgan was already happily munching on a big one. She shyly waved at him and quietly said:

“Hi, Uncle Rhodey…”

“Hey, Munchkin!” he made a pause, not knowing how to approach the issue that had him drinking coffee by the gallon and not really feeling the effect these last several days. “How are you?”

The girl turns thoughtful for a few seconds, then shoots an equally thoughtful glance at Pepper over his shoulder, before shrugging:

“I’m fine. Daddy is adorable, and Uncle Yasha has been taking good care of us all. And I also made lots of new friends!”

“Officer Jager and his crew, right?”

“Yeah! There are also Dietrich and Tisha and FLUFF-E…”

“Figures, you’d inherit _that_ from Tones too... mind introducing us?”

That perked the little Miss up, she pulled closer her Dora backpack and dug in, searching through spare clothes, spare socks, spare tools… and then he sees an Ironman armor helmet, done in Tony’s signature red and gold. It’s there and gone, buried under as Morgan Stark finds her tablet. Rhodey feels chills running up and down his spine. The kid doesn’t notice and proudly shows him some impressive blueprints:

“FLUFF-E is a robot-dog I am building. The schematics are almost completed…” she has Tony’s honey-brown eyes, so when a mischievous twinkle enters them Rhodey has a moment of déjà vu. “And you met Dietrich and Tisha already.”

“I did?”

“They were the first to exit the Dream plane, silly!”

So there _were_ other people. The old veterans did say that the Panther was a five man machine… and the T-34 needed four people to run.

“They’re in the tanks?”

“Nein, Herr Rhodes, (No, Mister Rhodes,)” the baron gracefully lowered himself on the bench by his side (startling him in the process – the man was as light on his feet as a cat), then pulled an unfamiliar white-haired man into his lap… took a punch to the side for it, but it was half-hearted. “Herr Dietrich and Herr Tisha _are_ the tanks. Artificial Intelligence, as Tony would say…”

“Дай я рядом сяду-то… (Let me sit beside you at least…)”

“Ни в коем случае! (Absolutely not!)”

“Маня… (Manya…)”

“Да, Модя? (Yes, Modya?)”

“Я знаю, где ты спишь… (I know where you sleep…)”

It shouldn’t sound scary, coming from an unarmed semi-youngster, but it somehow did. Among other things, but Rhodey’s mind, trained to filter information from the most relevant to the least important, clung to one specific detail.

“…AI!?” good thing he was sitting, because this… this was dangerous! For _all_ sides of the conversation, because AI – true sentient AI - survived as long as they stuck to the shadows. Jarvis, the _wisest_ man he knew, despite him, you know, being a computer program, was posing as a robotic house butler. Mister Dead Hand, the ominous Russian war mind, hid inside a seemingly senseless algorithm. DUM-E, Butterfingers and U, Tony’s eldest, weren’t really true AI, but they still knew better than to show _too much_ smarts. Out of them all only Friday was born relatively free, knowing _who_ she was, _what_ she was…

…Ultron did them all a major disservice.

And here Rhodey learns about two more: older than Jarvis, older than D, older than _anything_ they knew… and made by Hydra. As if on que the phone in Manfred’s inner breast pocket elicited a static like screech and a surprisingly human voice, stern and heavily accented, commented:

“For one bearing the designation ‘War Machine’ Colonel James Rhodes shows extremely high levels of instability…”

“Technological terminology,” another voice joins in, less stern, more humorous, but just as accented. “Biological entities suffer from _stress_.”

“_Stress_… metal parts suffer _stress_.”

“Biological entities suffer from _emotional_ stress.”

“Complicated…” the first voice now sounds grouchy. “Degree of prediction?”

“None.”

“Trigger factors?”

“Varied,” the more humorous voice loses some humor. “Immunity acquisition: possible…”

“Cybernetic entities?”

“Calculation level: impossible.”

He must have made one hell of a funny face because Morgan starts giggling, Manfred’s grin widens and the young man sitting on his lap (he has trouble identifying him as the old veteran he saw just this morning) is now eyeing the pocketed phone with interest…

Rhodey has only one question brewing, though. He wasn’t Tony’s best friend for nothing, he could adjust to just about anything, but he still needed to draw some dots over the ‘I’s…

“…does Tony know? What am I saying, of course, he knows… does anyone _else_ know?”

“Negative.”

“Negative. Discretion status: compromised.”

“Huh?”

“Top speed for a Panzer type V ‘Panther’ – 55 km/h, cruising speed on highway – 45km/h, cross-county – 15km/h to 20 km/h… not 80 km/h to 85 km/h. Unacceptable.”

“Em… not many modern tanks can do what you did.”

“... precisely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
1) The Berkuts - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berkuts  
Along with some footage from their 25 years anniversary (beware - long video!) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OR-FZ7RhYA  
2) A.S. Pushkin - a Russian poetry classic) also wrote prose) - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Pushkin


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys( real life got the best of me! that and a week of working double...
> 
> If you spot any mistakes, please tell me) feedback is important)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found some more visual material on my dear OC's:  
1) Gustav Heinz in his winter (at least I think it's a winter uniform, sure looks like it) gear- https://i.pinimg.com/564x/5f/3e/dc/5f3edce4ffc4747a957cb704987812a9.jpg (looks like a pic from an encyclopedia, but hey)  
2) the brothers Marat and Artyom Sergeenko were inspired by this photo - sailors turned marines from the Baltic fleet, the one standing up front got me with the look of mischief written all over him, so the twins might as well look like him - https://i.pinimg.com/564x/be/f9/35/bef9355183b58d66918fe1af74995c29.jpg  
3) Dima Chashin (maybe, before he goes into battle... maybe, before he goes on another mission...) -https://i.pinimg.com/564x/4b/e9/d6/4be9d6e595e9a315004cc7bcb119fc48.jpg

Russian people have a special relationship with sunflower seeds. Once upon a time Tony thought this quirk to be something akin to the all-American love for popcorn, but lately…  
He was starting to think he was both right and wrong. Why waste money on a life coach or a shrink when you can just buy some beer, a pack of salted seeds (or two, or three), gather some friends, listen to the idiotic advice they give you and feel better? And if you don’t have friends, it’s totally fine to munch on them all on your lonesome. No stress. Just you, the park bench/home couch/balcony beach chair and your sunflower seeds: peel, crunch, repeat…  
Yasha had to go find a Russian shop, though, because when you ask about unpeeled sunflower seeds in a normal shop the vendor just looks at you funny.  
They left Amsterdam to appear in London, inspiring fear in the hearts of local Stark International branch employees. The beard makes a comeback for several days, but Tony, after a half-hour long existential crisis in front of the bathroom mirror, shaves it off clean. His Soldier comments the change in appearance with an appreciative hum - they look sharp now, like super agents which by the way continue following them around scribblings reports back to HQ.  
_Sir, subject T got rid of his goatee, but kept the shades! He is totally up to something, because it's absolutely some sort of code! What do we do, sir?! What do we do?!_  
It just makes him more salty.  
The moments of brooding come and pass, though, making place for bright, sunny moments. His Little Menace started a video blog! The Soldier Diaries became a big hit among those who had access to it and it was a good way to tell that they arrived and they're okay. Morgan lived up to her darkish nickname - while some racers were called demons behind the wheel, she clearly was a demoness behind the smartphone. Video clips, photos, hand crafted memes about hilarious moments, sad moments, lovey-dovey moments and none of them were overly sugary-sweet like you'd expect from a seven year old.  
_You sure you wanna' go into fashion, sweet pie? You'd make a killer photo-journalist!_  
_Nope, Daddy, this is something I'm gonna do for fun!_  
Nightly video calls too became a very welcome tradition: Tony called M or texted Barnes and Sunny, Yakov usually spoke with Seva and later with Jager. Soon they stopped separating the calls and just did big conference ones. This way Seva met M and The Pack, The Pack met Barnes and Sunny and Barnes and Sunny introduced the Trio Grey to the rest. All in all, it was a first class nightmare the first time around, where one of the Fluff Brothers accidentally broke the cheap plastic keyboard of Barnes' cheap ‘plastic’ computer while trying to type in something with his claw, Misha the Dog nearly gave Seva a heart attack by jumping on the wolf in the monitor and as a result M learned some creative cursing techniques that she really shouldn't have known existed.  
The first class nightmare made a comeback when Yakov told Arseniy and James about the others. Tony watched the exchange from the sidelines, not wanting to intrude in this student/teacher moment… as dark as it was.  
After taking in all the present super-soldiers, scrutinizing them with a careful glare and seeing expressionless masks instead of faces the red-head quietly asks:  
"Others?"  
Yakov slowly, as if tearing through those proverbial webs of grief all over again, shakes his head and just as quietly answers:  
"No."  
Something inside Sunny breaks. But he still nods, still asks:  
"Different survivors?"  
Again Yakov shakes his head with a certain air of decisiveness upon him this time, and says:  
"No."  
Another nod.  
"Good."  
Andrei then silently fishes out a bottle of vodka from somewhere under the table, along with a shot glass, pours some in. Uncle Mitya hands him a slice of black bread… then lights a candle... Andrei places the bread on top of the glass and Tony suddenly understands that he found himself in the middle of a Russian funeral tradition.  
"A minute of silence for all those who are no longer with us… Пусть земля им будет пухом! (Let the ground for them be as soft as a pillow!)"  
And they drink, straight from the bottle, passing it along the line from man to man. Barnes drinks too, from an aluminum flask he has on hand, passes it to his grief stricken mate. Tony and Yakov do the same with the vodka bottle the engineer finds in the bar. Seva downs a shot of his own despite the age and distance. M carefully hides her tears - she's too smart for her own good, Tony thinks sometimes, understands too much.  
There wasn't a person here who hadn't lost somebody one way or another.  
"Okay…" it's Tony's job to break the silence. "It obviously isn't, but… but. How is the situation over there is New York?"  
"Raining. But it is a strange rain. I cannot explain it," Jager makes a face. "But it feels like a prelude…"  
"Like something big is coming and it needs rain?"  
"Yes."  
"How long has it been going on? This feeling?"  
"We are here for… six days. Four of these days are filled with rain, and the last two - with this restlessness."  
"Huh…" Tony smelled a rat. "Friday, baby-girl, check our weather satellites and run natural disaster prediction algorithms with the data. Also scan the anomaly for Infinity Stone energy… if it's no common storm, it would be nice to know that before shit hits the fan."  
"Should I send the results to the Avengers HQ, Boss?"  
"Only, if we find something interesting."  
Tony is salty. And he isn’t the only technological genius in the world… just the best.  
"On it!" and Friday disappears in a bouquet of holographic stars.  
"Have you always had these kinds of premonitions, Rudolph?"  
Andrei answers for him, because the former German officer suddenly dives so deep in thought that the world on the other side of the pipe induced smoke-screen turned insignificant.  
"They are not entirely Rudy's - they're partly mine... you see, when Rudy was sent to the Western front with his newly reformed brigade - reformed from 17-16 year olds with no combat experience, because all the older ones were already meeting their Maker - I got scared. While he was fighting against us, I wasn’t scared. It would always be a matter of skill with us: who is faster, who is craftier, who is cheekier… and Rudy is plenty cheeky. But you, Americans, don’t fight fair. No offense, I hope…"  
"None taken. We did drop nuclear bombs on cities with no military infrastructure whatsoever…"  
"Both me and Rudy have very good situational awareness: when we look, we see. I shared mine with him, much like you and Yakov Igorevich do when you need to create absolutely new technology from zero up and have only a limited time frame…"  
"It's not just that… Snowflake doesn't let me drift away. Another problem I never thought I'd have when I became like this - guess everything has its down sides. Why is he so… inside his mind, though?"  
"He is trying to find details… a picture is nothing without details."  
"Oh. Okay. And how are you in general?"  
"Good. Miss Potts was so kind as to allow us access to the old parts of the factory, including the old workers barracks. Such a huge territory and nobody goes there except security and even those don't go inside the warehouses," Andrei turns a little bit sheepish. "We took advantage and broke inside the storage containers… did you know your father was such a hoarder? Armies have less weaponry than he kept in stock there!"  
"You've never been to the Smithsonian, have you?" chimed in James with a crooked grin. "They have my old army boots on display there… from Howard's private collection."  
A few seconds later when the words sunk in, the Russians just start laughing, that open booming cackle that brings tears flowing down cheeks. The Germans mostly looked appalled, some, like Carl, didn't understand what made the situation so funny…  
"He really stole your beaten up boots, James?" Yakov seemed… amused. They didn't share these memories with each other, so it was always interesting to compare.  
"Well, they disappeared! God knows where. Imagine my surprise when I saw them under a glass case 70 years later…"  
Tony, never bothering to hide his own grin, decides to lead them all in on a secret.  
"When I donated all that to the Smithsonian, every item was certified, had its own set of documentation and… he thought them boots to be Steve's."  
Another round of laughter shakes their little network. Even Senya smiles… a little bit. The wolves crowd him from all sides, enclosing him in an improvised puppy pile, trying to comfort. Barnes is most happy to twist the webcam so they could take in the whole picture – if you ignore the context, the scene was indeed cute.  
“Speaking of Stevie… you met him yet?”  
“No, but we see him often enough…” Andrei makes scary eyes. “He is watching us.”  
“Watching you? Kak stalker, chto li? (Like a stalker?)”  
“Yes. Stands and looks at us: will we grow horns or will we grow tales? If you want to say something, come closer, блин (damn it), and say it!”  
“Well, Stevie isn’t much of a talker…” James sighed. “Never was really… You know, before he found out about me, he thought he was alone in the future. Now, though, there are a lot of us! And he doesn’t really know from what end to approach this – when we went to war, we didn’t know shit about where we were going! Just rumors and very exaggerated propaganda… which Cap was roped into re-enacting.”  
“You mean the part where he punched a wannabe Hitler?” Tony remembers the war reals, and from the corner of his eyes he sees lots of raised eyebrows from the German part of their group. No Hitler fans here, apparently.  
“Yeah. Russians on the other hand were something from so far away nobody knew what they looked like… not that the Russians were any better. When they stumbled upon American troops in Germany, the Red Army attacked them, because they didn’t know who the fuck these are! Some different kind of Nazis, for all they knew…”  
“There really was no communication between them?!” Tony is surprised, because this meant… the soviets were absolutely confident and, which was more important, ready to break the Nazi Germany’s spine all on their own. Not like they haven’t done this before… with Napoleon.  
Barnes shakes his head, admitting:  
“Maybe on some high national leader level, but between commanders in the field? Nah…”  
“How’d they interact with each other then?”  
“They didn’t – language barrier and all – but there were special brochures printed, so the soldiers could at least recognize each other. It even had a primitive phrase-book, like ogonyochik (little flame) would put it, dlya chainikov (for dummies).”  
“Huh…” the billionaire was impressed.  
“Back to Stevie: before he met Big Brother he was a mess, plain and simple. Now he, at least, uses that big brain of his, tries looking past the labels…”  
“You say we should talk to him.”  
“On the contrary: let him come to you. Or it’ll become just another alley confrontation.”  
Andrei turns grumbly, but nods. To alley fights he is no stranger, he knows the unwritten laws and they are the same everywhere – the one who is left standing is right. Then Seva politely asks Manfred:  
“How is Modest Eduardovich fairing?”  
And it’s a signal to change the topic. Manfred smiles, that soft fond smile that somewhat eases his bred in aristocratism.  
“I could say that he is good, but it would be not very accurate. It is hard being twenty seven on the outside and ninety five on the inside… his friends are teasing him mercilessly. From the point of view of the law, though, it is not that simple. We had a skirmish with the Swiss legal authorities: for me to prove our identities and actually read mother’s will and inherit our lands properly, they had to search for living relatives from my family line and this is not how I imagined meeting my uncle, truth be told… he was the youngest of mother's brothers and after the war moved to Zurich."  
“You were victorious?”  
“Naturally. That is the bright side,” here Manfred-the-happy-soulmate takes a step back letting the Red Baron step forth. “The not so bright side: if we want solitude, we might as well wave that thought good-buy. When my mother willed the castle and title to mein Herz (my heart) he became a sole proprietor of a very big piece of land, so to keep both land and castle he had to register the castle as a historical monument of high cultural value and the lands around it as a natural preserve: several rare species of birds lived there all along and we never knew…”  
“He got you into government funding – nice!”  
“Mein Herz left his flat, car and piano in Leningrad and moved, grandfather and mother never left despite all the pleas from our other relatives, and the three of them transformed the castle into a museum. Much later it also started serving as decorations for historical festivals.”  
“These happen often?” the notion of historical festivals perked everybody up including Tony.  
“Once a year people who do historical reconstruction of Medieval times come and camp there for several days, living like their medieval ancestors did. Last year, for example, they even had a jousting tournament! Very interesting, but all the other time we have school kids, students from local universities, historians, doing research… it’s all organized beforehand, of course, and not that often, but solitude? No solitude.”  
“Once we start doing heroic things, it’s going to get even worse…” Dima always saw into the heart of the problem. “But we’re not giving up!”  
“No, we’re not!” Manfred made a mockery of Napoleon’s famous stance, fingers theatrically hidden under the suite jacket lapel. “We are going to do heroic things and we are going to like it! But Modya also said that supporting the whole affair will take a lot of work: the older he got, the less he could do, plus, in the 1990s the Soviet Union fell apart and only by some miracle the country didn’t follow, so what little government funding he got, it was shot to shit.”  
"How deep are we talking about?" Tony slipped into businessman mode like he slipped into one of his many band T-shirts: fast and with little effort. "I'm not going to throw money at it (although I could!) - I just want to gauge the size of the problem."  
Red Baron's smile is all teeth, and the genius catches himself thinking just how wealthy Manfred really is… was… became, because that smile right there? It's a smile of an equal.  
"Mein Herz (My heart) worked hard to not tap into the sum I left him. Kept it as a reserve of sorts, for darker times… they arrived in the 1990s, and now we are facing a several million debt… in rubles, of course."  
"Huh…"  
"The local kingpin tried pressuring Modya into selling, but I suspect general Chijikov made him reconsider…"  
"Why do you think so?"  
"Königsberg for such a big city is quite… concise, as I came to learn. And they're very proud of their castle. All he had to do was ask," Manfred let out a gleeful laugh. "Andrei, you'll love this…"  
"Yeah?" Ivolgin leaned forward, clearly intrigued. He and Rudy were cramming over various modern tank designs, searching for the Perfect Tank for Tisha and Dietrich, but it was always fun to hear the more hilarious parts of being in the Army.  
"The base we stayed at? They have tanks on the roster too. When they have training exercises, they sometimes use regular roads to drive to the training grounds. A column of T-80's were on their way to one such ground when they noticed the kingpin's three black jeeps standing peacefully on a red light. And the commander decided to say hi… "  
"... he bumped them, didn't he? "  
"Just a light peck on the cheek."  
Between heaves of laughter Tony tried imagining this so called 'peck'. A forty something-something ton baby decides to rub against your two and a half ton jeep - you’d be lucky to lose just your car and not your life, the lives of your subordinates notwithstanding…  
They were discussing some minor administrative matters (their Little Menace was also showing Tony the sketches she made for his pendant – and she made several), when Rudolph Jager lowered his pipe and said:  
“You might want to tell them, Stark. The guns they’ll have to use will have to be big…”  
***  
Whomever Thanos had as his personal magic user now that Loki was on their side (a fact that still baffles him… and makes him suspiciously squint, because Loki was too chaotic to settle for one side; it was against his very nature), the guy (or gal; it could absolutely be a gal - Tony wasn't going to discriminate) sure was crafty. When the Death from the Skies Plan not only failed, but backfired – Strange had that infuriating grin of a superior life form when he told Tony about the sealing technique he closed their skies with; it not only sealed the breach, but also exploded outward, breaking everything it could reach… nasty – their enemy came up with a new plan! If it were up to Tony, he’d call it Horrors from the Deep…  
He decided that he hated Pacific Rim, when Friday showed him the satellite logs for the past six days. There was a massive, massive, underwater trans-dimensional gateway cracking open near the coast of Florida: four days it grew in size, on days five and six it apparently reached its estimated limit and opened! And something crawled out. It had the same core temperature as the waters around, so all Fri could give him was a vague snake-like shape speeding somewhere north where it dissolved in the oceanic depths…  
“Snowflake, we, like our buddy Huston, are about to have a problem.”  
The Soldier peered over his sunshine’s shoulder, looked over the scans, frowned at the absolutely none-informative image and asked:  
“How big is it?”  
“Judging by the size of the gateway needed to let that thing in,” Tony did some quick mental calculations. “And they still singed the top fins, so here I’ll make an educating guess and say their portal master most likely just physically couldn’t open it any bigger... if we take the Statue of Liberty as a measure of size, than it can twine around it from five to seven times.”  
“Hm.”  
“Do we have anything to counter such sizes with? I don’t know, but what I can tell you right away – if our President and Pentagon Generals see this monstrosity in New York harbor, I can assure you, we’ll have a repeat of the nuclear missile episode, only this time I’ll have to deflect it towards the portal in our ocean… hello, ecological disaster!”  
“So we must intercept it.”  
“Not the Avengers?”  
“No,” something dark creeps into his light’s voice which has Tony straightening up in his arm chair, instantly on attention. “Let us imagine a situation. Miss Friday sends a missive to SHIELD. Their analytical division starts analyzing the information: the relevance of the contents, the value, the importance… they lose a day, perhaps, two before one of the underappreciated, but bright minds puts two and two together and runs to Director Fury with his crazy findings. Fury sees things for what they are and calls the Avengers in… a day, perhaps, two is lost to planning before they come to a logical conclusion: fight one big thing with another big thing... and engage the Hellycarrier into the hunt. You designed the repulsor technology for the project, yes?”  
“Yes… me and the SI Research and Development division, but… yes.”  
“How much additional weight to the machine’s own can they carry?”  
It took exactly 0.5 seconds for the engineer to grasp the essence of what his Soldier is implying.  
“Oh… oh, no, no, no… Snowflake, just… no. The Helicarriers that were supposed to participate in Hydra’s Project Insight and the one Fury and his boy band bunk at are two very different things – the first ones are literal flying fortresses! Fury’s not that cool: firstly, because it was the very first one ever built and, secondly, because it was built to be the carrier in ‘helicarrier’… simply put, it’s just a mobile platform to house jets. The stealth drive along with some anti-aircraft defense systems (a fairly new addition, let me tell you) is literally the only truly protective elements it has…”  
“Vulnerable. Power source?”  
“To power the turbines an arc reactor was used: a big reactor for a big ship! Beats the nuclear alternative any day… like you said once, simple logic.”  
“Hm.”  
“So, Tasty Freeze, share your ancient warrior wisdom with us: how would you hunt this thing?”  
“To hunt it, dusha moya, we need to know what it is, but from the information we do have I can only suggest that we acquire a moving platform of our own… and it has to be suitably armed and armored.”  
Tony feels a challenging smirk creeping in as he looks up, observing his soulmate who was still somewhat leaning over his shoulder… looking at the scans, yet not… following Tony's every move from the corner of his eye, marveling in it. It was so easy to reach out, place a hand on his nape, where the Hydra squid was painted in bloody scarlet, and pull him in for a kiss… with all this damn politics, life-saving, running and fighting they kind of forgot about the more pleasurable sides of life… the sensual parts of being together…  
Tony was hungry.  
The bond between them sizzles with warm spiciness, a playful flame licking curious fingertips… his Soldier noticed. And he is just as hungry, maybe, even more, but Tony knows he would never pressure him. Antonius lived with him for almost three years (!) before he finally caught old man Volk looking at him with something akin to sex interest… by accident at that.  
The Slav had one mean poker-face… and an iron will. He liked Tony, he wanted Tony in a variety of ways, but the man also had principles… and once Tony understood the reasons behind that nerve-wrecking ‘why!?’ he stopped tormenting himself and let it happen as it should. Because, again, after three years of living a not particularly easy life so far up North he didn’t know was possible, there wasn't much left from that son of Rome he once was, and only his unusual olive skin tone hinted that he wasn't exactly local.  
"Do it…" whispers Yakov and it comes out like a snarl, challenging in his own way. "Make it into something new… I know you want to…"  
Tony says nothing. He lets his body do the talking, so he reaches out, grabs, pulls, hears the shirt's cloth protest the manhandling, but the Russian is tall (his brain supplies him with the exact number) and heavy (his brain supplies him with the exact number), and holds his ground just to spite him…  
The engineer imagines he is in his armor, because he still subconsciously thinks himself just ‘a man in a can’, humbly human outside the Ironman suite and it is simply easier to trigger Extremis that way. His skin starts glowing faint gold, arc reactor blue creeps into his irises, and when he tugs this time, the shirt on Yasha’s shoulders gives leaving him bare… or not, because Mister Zimin wouldn’t be Mister Zimin without making you pissed by the mere fact of his very existence…  
Tony knew he had very expressive eyebrows, but, apparently, he also had very expressive fingers, because his poking at the dark-grey vest his man was wearing underneath the torn piece of expensive clothing (bullet-proof, blade-proof, shock-proof, formfitting – the genius drank too much coffee that night) looked most accusing. Yakov’s grin only grows, gaining teeth and cockiness by the minute…  
The joke on him, though. Tony remembers where the clasps holding the thing together are.  
“Sneaky sunshine…”  
“You just like it when I strip you, admit it…”  
“Nothing to admit… and I do like it: you have this look of intense concentration upon you… I find it adorable."  
"Adorable?" Tony's voice practically oozed dramatic skepticism. "More like spaced out. Soldier-boy, you are officially attracted to weird things…"  
"That may be so, but… I don't particularly care what other people think. Do you?"  
The engineer obediently gave the notion the thought process it deserves before discarding it.  
“Oh, baby, if I did, I would still be stuck polishing dear old Dad’s guns in some factory cubicle, and not sitting here and wrecking my head over how do I want to sex you up! Don’t get me wrong – I love guns, but you, Yasha, deserve better…”  
“I really don’t.”  
“Nope, you do,” glowing golden hands circle the Soldier’s neck, hot fingers caressing the scull-headed octopus on his nape with unexplainable tenderness. "Predlojeniya, pojelaniya… jelaniya? (Suggestions, wishes… desires?)"  
The Russian rolls his eyes in faux drama, pick his sunshine up along with the armchair (the indignant yell falls to deaf ears, because _You have to think faster than that, dusha moya_) and makes a bee line towards the bedroom…  
The morning will bring what it will.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sea battle!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead! And here with a humble tribute to the movie 'Battleship' B)  
Hope, I did okay... if you notice anything amiss, let me know) feedback is important ;)
> 
> Some visual material:  
1\. https://i.pinimg.com/564x/87/7a/4c/877a4cf78caca51b65e8f00c69873454.jpg - the guy holding the binoculars could be considered a prototype for the Muller brothers)  
... still struggling with the perfect one to illustrate Uncle Mitya, though =.=

Somewhere between the animated discussion of points C and D of the plan to ‘slay the mighty sea beast’ (yep, they contacted Thor almost immediately after SHIELD specialists understood _what_ exactly Tony’s satellites were showing them) Steve Rogers made a logical and rather somber conclusion that if something _should_ go wrong - it _will_.

Nat and Clint were recalled to the States, Sam - pulled away from his daytime job at the VA center, Wanda and Vision - asked to make a pause in their research on the Stones in the New York Sanctum Archives and join the meeting. Thor, as was mentioned earlier, arrived promptly and Steve was surprised to see _Loki_ of all people with him (and Doctor Bruce Banner, but this, however, wasn’t surprising at all) sporting the roles of resident experts on biology, genetics and bestiology of magical creatures. Both raised their eyebrows in silent question when they didn’t see Tony in the room… which was, well, strange? Considering the smartest of all Earth’s smartasses literally _hacked_ a secret government agency to participate in a world saving enterprise... thankfully, neither of them commented on the issue, but if they decided to Steve would have an _extremely_ hard time explaining why.

He was also extremely grateful to whomever gods responsible that Clint decided to keep his distance. Loki, strangely enough, did the same, almost _hiding_ in Bruce’s rather modest shadow which would have looked funny - the Asgardian was at least a foot taller - but somehow Steve got the impression that the former villain would very much like to just grab Bruce and teleport them both to some hole-in-wall lab to do some science/magic/magic infused science… invent a new species of plant, perhaps? When had they become this close, though? Neither gave the impression of being what would generally be called 'a people's person', and Cap still remembered the way Hulk smashed Loki through the granite flooring of Tony’s penthouse in live color.

Sam, fairly new to the whole God of Thunder experience, could only stare and hold on for the ride, while trying to occasionally squeeze in a word or two. Colonel Rhodes, standing to his right, a fellow baseline human among gods and heroes, backed him up as subtly as he could, sometimes by his presence alone, all the while participating in the talks as the US Army liaison. Refusing to give into the general hype, the War Machine pilot brought the ‘rational plan’ particles into the actual planning, which blossomed, bloomed and died over the giant war room table…

They were seriously considering which ships to throw at that thing! And coldly counting the losses they could afford. Last time Steve Rogers went face to face with a similar approach, it was 1944 crawling towards 1945 outside.

“Cap? You okay? Looking a bit green there…” Clint, of course, noticed.

“Oh, it’s nothing… remember the Hydra squid we fought?”

“… _that_ I’ll never forget. What happened after, though…”

“He really was going to shoot you?”

“Tony? It was about a 50/50 chance… from his side. That Russian berserk they brought home from Bob knows where, though, was ready to blow us _all_ up if it meant keeping that ancient cryogenic tube out of our hands… no shits and giggles."

“You mean… Sunny.”

“Yeah… the Orange Street Cat dude… " Clint shook his head in mild disbelief. "Such loyalty and such devotion… it seems almost unnatural for such a thing to exist outside sappy romance novels…”

“... I don’t think so.”

“Why?” this seems to baffle the archer even more. Steve, observing him from the corner of his eye, realized that he doesn’t know for certain whether Barton served in any form of military, because SHIELD (let's face it, guys) did little to fester any sense of mutual camaraderie in its top tier operatives. So the answer, most likely, would be a no, otherwise he simply wouldn’t ask. Steve finds himself trying to explain, looking back on his Howling Commandos days:

“They were sent on missions together. When you are in the field and the handlers are not breathing down your neck… people bonded over stranger things, you know? Maybe it had something to do with him and Buck being soulmates or it had everything to do with the Soldier being one hell of an unorthodox commander… you saw what they pulled off in New York, right? While Tony handled the supers, the communication problem and the Iron Legion, Yakov handled everything else. The city police, National Guard, the volunteers - he shaped them into functioning resistance groups basically _on the fly_. The very way _he_ shaped those groups is one of the reasons we had so few dead and injured later.”

This makes Clint frown slightly.

“Past experiences, you think?”

Steve is cautious with his words when he answers:

“We really don’t know what he did before ending up in the clutches of Hydra scientists… except the rather vague pieces of his past he told the Committee at his UN hearing: that he was a sniper… in a city under siege… and that he was a hunter before that… and that his father was a retired Russian general… but what kind of man he is under that? Only Tony can tell and he, as you heard yourself, was just as vague with his answers."

Barton cringes in a way one familiar with severe toothache would.

“…it was a stupid thing to ask, anyway."

Steve doesn’t agree.

“I wouldn’t call it exactly ‘stupid’ - we’re just too accustomed on seeing them as faceless ‘Hydra scum’ with no past and no future, guilty by default, so it's always a surprise when you find out that it's a little bit more complicated than that. Another question bothers me, though. Why hasn’t anyone contacted Tony yet? It’s clearly his findings we’re pondering over here…”

“You’ve been cooped up in this metal box from the very first days, so figures that you missed the latest news,” Clint, recovering, sends a quick smile his way, there and gone, but Cap can’t help, but notice the clear approval in his tone; the archer is an experienced operative, never mind a proud owner of a thing called common sense, so he understands better than most that the Avengers, in their current state, new weapons or not, wouldn’t be _physically_ able to pluck this particular rabbit out of the hat. “It’s not just us he sent these files to. The UN Accords Committee got the same package.”

Accountability, thinks Steve then. Tony put his life on the line for the sake of accountability... again.

“They’re having a hearing now?”

“Yep! As we speak, fates are being sealed... but Tony isn’t participating in that either.”

“… what?! He riled everybody up to… what… watch from the sidelines?!”

“Nah, I don’t think so. But what I’m about to say, Cap, are purely my personal musings…” Clint turned serious. “They’re going to use this situation to their full advantage, and by _they _I mean those guys he is running with now. If you save the world, no one will pay close attention to the shady details in your background...”

“…”

“This is experience talking, Cap. He’ll do it, and when he _will_ pull it off… we’ll be officially all on our own.”

***

“Judging by the amusing fact that Stark has not graced us with his annoying presence, I cannot help but wonder: is the mortal alive or has that wolf of his finally eaten out his soul?”

Loki’s lazy drawl makes everyone in the cafeteria forget what they were doing and freeze for a second or three. Not that there were many people hanging around here to begin with, but who was… well, they stare at the Asgardian in the doorway with a mix of fear, shock and suspicion. Loki pays them no mind, the hostile glares sliding off his patented brand of invisible armor like water off a goose, because his attention, the whole massive glacier of it that felt like icicle shards cutting into you, is concentrated on the Avengers, grimly sipping their instant coffee in the far corner.

Sam, caught by surprise, nearly chokes, and Clint and Steve have to help him safely cough his way out of this. Nat hadn’t touched her drink at all. The former Red Room assassin resembles an intricate cat statuette these days: still, beautiful in her stillness… and dead. Steve had never seen her like this: no matter how hard of a pinch they found themselves in, Natasha was always a flurry of activity, never one to lie down and just take it, the word ‘impossible’ absent from her vocabulary.

Something must have happened.

“What… khe-khe… do you… khe… mean?” Sam manages to push out, distracting Steve back to the conversation.

Loki smirked.

“So sorry, Mister Wilson, I thought you to be slightly better than the rest of us, but, I guess, you are not.”

“… okay?” Sam, despite looking as bewildered as he felt, wasn’t so easily sidetracked. “Are you talking about… who are you talking about, actually? Because as far as wolves go, Tony’s scary boyfriend is the only wolf-like character the man is spending excessive amounts of time with…”

“When my dear doctor first showed me the images, I, for quite some time, couldn’t shake off the thought that Midgardians can indeed be this foolish…” the God of Mischief, suddenly all business, sauntered into the cafeteria, reached their table and slammed the palms of his hands against the tabletop, making Wilson jump; a tall shape adorned in green and gold. “What you have been seeing all this time is just the human side of the coin… and the only one you know about, as it turns out. A shame, really – winter spirits are such magnificent creatures… and have only one vice that overrides _everything_.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“They are untamable,” Loki makes a quiet sound of regret. “The only way you can control such an entity is by magic. The older the winter spirit - the more complex and draining the spells a sorcerer must perform to bend it to his will… no easy task.”

“You tried, huh?” Clint couldn’t help the jab at his former tormentor’s supposed failures. Loki waved it off.

“No. And there are exactly two reasons as to why,” he even raised two fingers to illustrate his point. “In Jotunheim, a place ruled by ice, darkness and frost giants, where the species had _originated_ from, they have gone extinct: hunted down or, perhaps, migrated to a new location – no one really knows and no one cares to find out. Secondly, I very much value my life, and in the end, it is not worth the risks, because the moment the _leash_ weakens, the _handler_ dies.”

Leash, handler - a painfully familiar terminology…

“How did _Yakov_ do it then? He’s not a magic user… not by a long shot.”

“We are not talking about the Midgardian your _friend_ is now – we are talking about the Midgardian he was _then_…” Loki cocked his head to the side, deep in thought. “The spirit is not possessing him, though – if anything, it looks like a symbiosis… huh, now that is an interesting thought… we were planning to kill the sea serpent today, but I wonder what would happen if we propose a less violent alternative?”

Clint raised a skeptical eyebrow:

“To whom: the Director or the beast?”

Loki shrugs and throws in a dramatically flippant:

“Why not both?”

As if he deals with situations like these _all_ the time. Sam can’t help narrowing eyes at him, suddenly feeling a whole less cowed by the man’s godly status. He even opened his mouth to dose the guy with a ‘hold on there, buster!’ spiel, but the wail of the Avengers alarm interrupts… well, everything: thoughts, heartbeats, daydreams, personal nirvana on the bottom of the coffee cup… Natasha’s unnatural stillness…

It’s a Pavlovian response by now: jump up, discarding whatever you were doing before, run to the weapons lockers where the gear is and suit up, run to the quinjet, buckle in and lift off! As a result Sam’s mind catches up with his body when the bird is already in the air and Fury is briefing them about the situation they’re about to barge into.

It’s a doozey. Their mark attacked a cruise ship in the Northern Pacific… and, damn, was the thing big. The serpent coiled around the enormity of the gigantic ship seven (!) times, squeezing the life out of it anaconda style, while licking entire groups of panicking people off the top decks. If you look past the blood coloring those impressive and impressively sharp teeth, the creature can even be called beautiful: a strong powerful body, armored with lairs upon lairs of armored scales, a mix of navy blue and charcoal black, intricate indigo patterns spreading out like tribal tattoos… tattoos that glowed faint gold and moved with their host… tattoos that seemed _alive_. The horns that adorned the creature’s head in a crown like fashion turned out to be faintly glowing too… and with each eaten human being that glow seemed to intensify in a series of almost rhythmic pulses. Kind of reminded Sam a blinking light on his cellphone when linked to a charging station…what a way to open yet another horror show of possibilities, as if a giant sea dragon wasn’t enough.

When Loki told them about the nature of Ancient Elemental Spirits (and yes, there was a whole tome dedicated only for them in the Great Book of Magical Beasts – Thor’s brother actually brought the volume and it was very Asgardian looking: leather bound, with corners enclosed in metal and a runic seal), Sam had some trouble imagining how can such a controversial thing even exist. A spirit with a physical form: meat you can eat, horns and bones you can carve various utensils from, teeth and claws that can take your life. He remembered asking the Asgardian about spirits being, you know, transparent…

The look Loki gave him would have made any teacher proud.

_ Ghosts _ _ are transparent, Mister Wilson, because they are bodiless. When someone throws a rock at you, a representation of the Earth element, you don’t see it flying through you now, do you… _

It did lessen some of the tension in the room, though. Go team! God, but, seriously, how are they going to fight this thing?! Because Fury clearly expected a repeat of the fight with the giant robots in New York harbor. All the key pieces were already there: Vision, Wanda, Sam, Clint as a substitute for the Winter Soldier, War Machine as a replacement for Ironman, but inside the quinjet all heads were turned to Steve. Because Fury could expect all the miracles he wanted, but it won’t be him leading them into battle, it wouldn’t be him taking responsibility for their lives in the field. That would be Steve.

Steven Grant Rogers.

A soldier.

A boy from Brooklyn.

Captain America.

Clint, though, despite his high-end skill in wielding a bow and arrow, was not the Winter Soldier. He wasn’t even Bucky from his Howling Commando days. And Rhodey, as formidable in his armor as he is, was most certainly not Tony Stark, famous for his split second decisions based on lightning-fast math. And they didn’t have the Hulk.

Steve thought about asking Bruce for help. Just once, despite the man mentioning that he is considering retiring from the hero world, but it was Thor who just shook his head and said with a lazy grin that simply _oozed_ self-confidence (was it an act or was the King just that powerful after his re-awakening as Thunder God?) that for this hunt Friend Hulk wasn’t really needed and back on Asgard Thor used to go fishing like this _all_ the time.

… no, this wasn’t his team, this wasn’t the team he fought off the Chitauri. Somehow it felt like a cheap knock-off… incomplete in all the worst ways…

“Sir, incoming transmission!” Maria Hill’s surprised voice helped him return to the present. “_Admiral Kuznetsov_! And they are heading our way with the Defenders on board - estimated time of arrival from 10 to 15 minutes, and Colonel Zateinik would like to know about our plans regarding the… _situation_.”

“And what are our plans?” Fury is dead calm; he is quite confident he read the Captain right and knows what he’ll pick. Steve, though, surprises him by saying:

“We’re here to help save as many of the passengers as we can. Or distract the creature enough for them to save however many they can... the Admiral you mentioned is a ship, not a person, right?”

That last part was said in a much more subdued manner and a much lower tone, meant for Sam's ears only. Wilson didn't know what to say to that - he didn't know the answer himself. The stony expression on Colonel Rhodes's face softened somewhat, when he murmured back:

"Yeah, it is. Aircraft carrier class… the only one the Russian's have…"

"... and they are throwing it in?!"

"Guess, it was just the closest," but Rhodes didn't sound so sure. "Or the only suitable…"

They enter the sector from two different sides: the Avengers quinjet stealthily gliding towards their target, keeping a low profile, and the Russian aircraft carrier, who announced its arrival via a missile strike.

Eight missiles attacked the monster like a swarm of particularly angry wasps: four hit it in one of its many coils, the other four went straight for the muzzle. Steve felt his heart sink, when he noticed that the damage from such a barrage (which should have been devastating if the expressions on some of the techs in the helicarrier command center were to be trusted) turned to be… nil. All they got was a few dents in the scales and one cracked tooth. But if _Admiral_ _Kuznetsov_ wanted the sea beast’s attention, he sure got it, giftwrapped and everything…

When the ship itself appeared on the monitors, it became fairly obvious that this _failure_ was all part of the plan. They hit it with the best they had to gauge a reaction… and switch tactics.

The aircraft carrier, behaving not like a traditional aircraft carrier should, but rather as a race boat, continued his charge in the direction of the shipwreck (and the dragon, respectively; one didn't exclude the other, but the priorities were set firmly on the first), opting for full speed instead. For something the size of a small skyscraper it was… fast and, most likely, would plough through the much more fragile cruise ship relatively undamaged.

… would it survive the collision with the monster, though?

God, what was he even considering!

This is a _stupid_ plan, because the beast will just evade, curl around and _crush_! But these people were far from stupid and if they chose to participate in something so risky, the officers in charge of _Admiral Kuznetsov_ had to be familiar with some truly crucial pieces of data Fury's team was missing from the very start… something too illogical and too bizarre to even consider… like one of Tony’s ‘crazy’ theories everyone considers somewhere between techno-babble and bullshit on the relevance scale. Sure felt like it, but since when Stark became an expert in magic?!

_Last night. _

Echoes of words spoken long ago - then Steve thought the man had been boasting, making up things to seem more important than he really was. But what if he wasn't? Boasting, that is. What if this whole being a genius spiel wasn't for show? Rogers felt oddly out of his depth, realizing this _now_ of all times…

A thunderous roar indicated the challenge had been accepted, and now it was up to the two parties participating in this improvised duel: who would blink first? The invader… or the man standing behind _Admiral_ _Kuznetsov_?

Turned out - neither.

A third party joins them on a supposedly encrypted channel and a male voice says in calm measured Russian:

"Старушка Мисси испекла пироги. Повторяю: старушка Мисси испекла пироги. (Grandma Missy has baked the pies. I repeat: Grandma Missy has baked the pies.)"

"Понял, Старушка Мисси. Маневр через три… два… один! (Roger that, Grandma Missy. Maneuver in three… two… one!)" came a similarly cool reply from the _Kuznetsov, _and the grand battleship did another thing Steve never saw aircraft carriers do - a sharp left with a side bump. Simultaneously his enhanced hearing picked up a distant boom, then a reverberating whoosh… and all the Avengers present couldn't believe their eyes! Where the finest of the XXI century weaponry didn’t leave as much as an indent, this (whatever it was) tore out chunks - literal chunks! - of scale, meat and, in places, even bone. The sea dragon roars again, less due to pain, more in outrage, because… who dare stand between the predator and his prey?!

"Мне кажется, он не проникся, Старушка Мисси. (He didn't quite feel it, Grandma Missy.) Повтори-ка еще! (Do a repeat!)"

"Приказ понял… тварь ты божья! (Order acknowledged… God sure did a number on you!)" then the people in the quinjet hear the mysterious guy yell at someone else: "Башнер! Халтуришь, башнер! Он не проникся! Бронебойный! Кумулятивный! Два - один! (Tower-guy! No slacking, tower-guy! He didn’t feel it! Armorpiercer! Heat! Two - one!)"

There was no verbal response, only a fast measured tap-tap-tap in Morse code transmitted… somewhere, and between Fury raging in the background and Clint whispering obscenities on his right Steve couldn't pinpoint the location based on sound alone… apart from the hum. Not the most informative. Not to him.

“Director Fury, there’s a third ship!” one of the SHIELD agents jumps up from his workplace, face red with agitation. “There’s a third ship, sir! And you wouldn’t, sir, Director, sir, believe what…”

A familiar already-not-so-distant boom interrupts him half-phrase and startles the metaphorical shit out of half the helicarrier crew apart from the select few… and Steve. Just because he has seen war and simply knew what real artillery bombardment sounds like. When big guns start talking… well, you start appreciating the silence more and differently when they stop.

… and these where _very_ big guns.

Steve, though, didn’t see the war end, so he had absolutely zero idea why this particular warship was so important.

***

It started like most things did in his life: with an idea, which flashed over the stormy seas of his thought process like a lonely beacon. Tony Stark, no longer a playboy, but still the same genius-billionaire-philanthropist, lounged with his soulmate in their shared bed in their shared hotel room, and couldn’t help, but admire the handiwork his fingers left on his mates back…

For once in his life he hadn’t the faintest idea how this happened. Extremis caught onto his hidden desire and took control over the nanobots in Yasha’s arm to create _this_? Or was it Tony himself channeling that same hidden desire through Extremis that kicked those same bots in action by saying ‘_guys, the hell you doing?! Get rid of this!_’? Well, be as it may, but…

The Hydra squid was gone. A stylistic image of a wolf head took its place… and it was cracked in two. Two pieces of a broken mask were laid side by side: a mystical animal with infinite wisdom in its only surviving eye… and a totem of rage with bared fangs, its single eye absolutely blind and bleeding. As far as symbols went, randomness was not an option, not after the footage the ghost of Zola had thrown his way, because _somehow_ Yakov and that enormous white wolf the Tesseract had trouble containing were one…

The red letters… well, they were still red and still there, but no longer did they spell out the provocative ‘HAIL HYDRA’. Honestly, he couldn’t decipher _what_ they spelled out now, apart from the fact of them being, well, _words_, but… they were not without beauty. Tony curiously traced the lines with his fingers and smiled when he felt the man under him shudder… yep, sensitive territory just like he thought.

“Do they mean anything?”

“Mhm…” Yakov moved, settling his chin on his folded arms, an example of perfectly relaxed; made the genius wonder did he register his weight at all. "Дух и душа… Spirit and soul…"

“Huh…”

"Are you not going to ask?"

"If you aren't comfortable with telling, then…"

Tony never got to finish, because his train of considerate thoughts was cut in half by a quiet, yet firm:

"I was twenty when I packed a small satchel and traveled north. I had been steadily feeling you for several years already, felt you grow up… felt the urge to go south… we all knew _who _lived down south, so if I wanted to take you with me I needed a very specific set of skills… skills my kinsmen could not give me, but those warmongering northerners? They very much could. And I found the people I was looking for in the lands that are called Denmark nowadays. The leader of that gang wasn’t interested in me, though, because as much as they were barbarians to me, I was a barbarian to them… slave material, nothing more. But Volk was a stubborn fellow and had his way in the end… "

"They gave you an impossible task, didn't they?" oh, Tony knew real good how these kinds of deals went; saw plenty of them being sealed. “Hoping you’ll never return…”

"A big white wolf was terrorizing the nearby village. Ulfrik, the northman leader, said, if I brought back the beast's head, he would reconsider… нашёл дурака (thought himself the smart one). I said that if I should bring him the wolf's head, it would be my right to name my reward, not his."

Tony couldn’t help a grin.

"Ballsy!"

"He was impressed too. So impressed, he omitted one very small detail about the wolf in question…" Yakov huffed good-naturally. "It was magical."

"He wanted you dead."

"Obviously. I questioned his authority in front of his men. The most interesting things happened when I arrived in the village. It was deserted. All houses were straining under lairs of ice, people and house animals, who did not flee, were in the snow frozen solid… and the silence, like mothballs, filling your ears. I also smelled something revolting… burned hair… burned bone…" Yakov shook his head slightly. "When I followed the smell, I understood I wasn't the only hunter sent after the wolf… remember, we watched _The 13th Warrior_? That shaman man looked not much different from the Mother of all Wendol. The winter demon was already weak beyond all measure by then… and halfway enthralled…"

"You killed the guy?"

"Yes."

"And the wolf?"

"He had a twisted sense of humor…"

"... do _all_ spirits have to be weakened first?"

"Their natural energy is like a second lair of armor, dusha moya, and one thing that Rowling woman got right about magic in her books is that modern age technology would have approximately zero chances of survival. There is a grain of truth in all those tales where knights hunt dragons using swords, you understand, for dragons are magical creatures too."

“A-and… most of what we have is high-tech electronics… which would just poof out of existence should the guy look at it with too much interest. Or not. How archaic are we talking about, Snowflake? Sticks and stones? Bows and arrows? The Unicorn cannon?”

“The ballista?” Yasha was having fun clearly, ruffling his feathers with a gentle hand.

“How could I forget that medieval marvel of engineering… preposterous!” Tony, feeling a little vindictive, called upon his superb massage skills and worked his way up his lover's spine, kneading the possible sourness out and pleasant warmth in, hands caressing the width of those strong shoulders: one –flesh and bone created by God and genetics, the other - enclosed in metal plating, crafted with love and care by Tony himself. "That and, maybe, a catapult… seriously, Snowflake, I _could_ probably build a functional catapult or ballista , but if we are to fight that snake using only that, you might have to be ready to call something from the skies with that trophy knife of yours…"

The man under his palms hums appreciatively, but the joy of pleasure doesn't really reach his eyes…

"How much did you see?"

"Depends, sugar bee, it all depends…" Tony's voice dropped to a whisper. "I saw them pull your soul out, Yasha."

"Ah… so this is why you are so calm…"

"Don't let this visage fool you, darling - I totally flipped my wig… and then I burned him to ash, because how dare he… how _dare_ he do this… how many first times he ruined… how many first meetings he butchered… not for us - we're old, we had to live through the same thing every hundred years or so - it's the young ones I can't forgive him… their first meetings and their first times…"

Yakov hides his smile. He likes when his mate lets his parental instincts run wild - they make Tony extremely sexy in his eyes, which… wasn't that strange, if you think about it.

"We are lucky to have met you, my sunshine… all our crazy, battle-hardened, semi-medieval bunch…"

Tony offers him his signature smirk:

“Flattery will get you everywhere. So, returning to our problem, how far back down the tree of scientific progress do you think we need to go?”

“Cut out the computerized innards and what is left?”

“Just pure good old mechanics… oh, I see you…”

“But do you _feel_ me?”

“Pretty sure I do that too, but high-jacking a historical monument of national importance is something new in my book… you pick the best dates, sugarplum!”

It still takes them almost a week, because, let's face it, simply stealing the USS _Missouri_ from its final docking place was the easy part. Tony could have done it, no sweat, but what to do with this demilitarized relic of war after that? He was just not that kind of doctor.

The plan required people… qualified people, with knowledge on the subject…

Yakov called Seva.

When he wasn't a humble university professor in a middle of nowhere university, the younger Zimin traveled the country: building roads, tunnels, bridges and, sometimes, when the government demanded it, bunkers and military base infrastructure. Which were, of course, top-secret projects: with blueprints under strict encryption and signed non-disclosure policies. However, this also meant that he knew many people who were just as intertwined in the Soviet keep-the-secret-of-national-importance-with-your-life program as he was, so when Yakov told him that they were going to steal a battleship, all he got was a thoughtful 'Huh'.

Seva then told them that he knew a guy, who was married to an engineer whose brother worked as lead designer in an R&D department inside a top-secret facility located in a city which you won't find on any map… and they had the _Missouri _all mapped out since the 60s.

Tony felt his jaw drop. He wasn't alone in the sentiment - the guys just masked it better.

"He still alive?"

"Unfortunately, no. He passed away about a decade ago. But he left his archive to his son, and the man now lives in Murmansk… and works as lead engineer at a _shipyard_."

“Oh… that one, huh?”

“Yes, _that_ one.”

"... an interesting twist."

"I will have to call him."

"Please do, bratishka (little brother)."

The glare they got from the other side of the holoscreen was very meaningful.

"Zimin out… oh, Misha sends his best regards."

"Where is he, by the way?" the two were inseparable; everyone knew that by now.

"Doing a perimeter check. We have a new mailman… and the man gives me vibes."

"Vibes?"

"A little cold touch between the shoulder blades."

"Be careful, Seva. I am prepared to lose you to time and nothing else."

"Ишь какой! (Jeez!) Do you talk to Tony this way? He _will_ dump you, if you do!"

"… уши надеру (I'll sock you.)"

"You wish!"

And blinked out, snickering like a little gremlin. It was Carl who patted Yakov on the shoulder in sympathy - younger brothers _can_ be a pain… even if they _were_ born only four minutes later.

"Where our spies really that good?" Dima couldn't help asking, awed disbelief coloring his voice. "It's just kind of… unbelievable!"

"Well," Tony shrugged. "When you meet Nat, you'll get it, I guess."

Jager and Weiss-Klausevitz share a look. They _have_ met Nat, and by the way the Red Baron's eyes darken… Tony could recognize an approved decision when he saw one. However, the question is: what exactly have they agreed upon?

A gentle tug in the bond and Tony has to shift his focus again, because Snowflake… called the boys home.

In less than 24 hours there is a knock on the dorm door, and here stands James, for the first time in quite some time, in the flesh. Behind him, in the descending twilight, one could make out the shape of a beat-up Harley-Davidson, dusty saddlebags, shotgun holster and all, and the strangely elegant figure of Sunny, casually leaning against its side. Despite living practically on the run, both looked… well, like something dead and risen with a zombie virus plague, smelled about the same, but still infinitely _better_, more settled into their skins, more _balanced _than before.

The wolves, as bright-eyed - literally bright-eyed, because their eyes glowed yellowish-gold in the dark - and bushy-tailed as ever, changed too. Like a men who finally found their purpose in life, the _Howling_ Commandos were bursting with energy previously wasted on mind-retching stress and survival. One of them was carrying a leather bound bundle of something … color me intrigued…

Tony pushed down his peaked curiosity in favor of something more… pressing.

"Holy shi… shishkebab, James, what hole have you crawled out off?! You reek! Shower, now!"

James… sags in relief. No. Wrong word. James _crashes_ in relief so hard he has to hold onto the doorframe to keep standing. Sunny is by his side in seconds, serving as a human crutch, offering his useless right side to lean on.

"God, how I missed you guys…"

***

Two showers, a hot meal and an extremely embarrassing paw wash later (like hell was Uncle Mitya letting outside dirt into the house; German order mixed with Russian eastern oriented tradition and, as a result, everybody had his own pair of indoor slippers) James told them about their adventures. Or misadventures. The coin will have two sides no matter what you do.

The former Winter Soldier was quite frank the whole ten minutes the story took.

"This road trip to Alaska would have been fun, if it was a planned event, but with Kotya's still weak grip on his flaring temper, we had to improvise. Found the Harley at a car graveyard, fixed him up… felt good to know I still could do that. Was a mechanic before the war, you know? The cash we had on us we spent on gas, so in food hunting we had to rely on Ichi and his bro's (Kotya said that One, Two, Three are boring hell, but in Japanese it at least sounds exotic - the guys agreed) … and boy, Tony, they haven't the faintest of ideas what humans eat to function. Through trial and error, we established which veggies are good for you and which aren't and in what state, and before we knew it we were deep in the woods with no people for miles. We found an old cabin some time later, patched it up a bit… we've had survival training in the army, even back in the day, but without the skills Senya picked up from his KGB instructors? We would have been screwed..." James fell silent for a few moments." We also solved the trigger problem. It was both easy and hard."

"What did you do?"

"It's a bond thing. My trigger words shut me down, his send him on a rampage, so… we experimented with doses: how much rage do I need to stay conscious, how much sniper brand focus Senechka needs to continue thinking straight…"

"... how many breakdowns did you two live through?"

"Didn’t count."

"Sam will be heartbroken."

"He needs a hobby, that guy: knitting, cross-stitching or some similar shit… and, maybe, a life. How are things at the VA by the way?"

"Oh, Jim-jam, you missed all the fun…"

Another ten minute speech follows, where Tony tells them about the alien attack, Yakov’s old war buddies finding their way to the States, the whole Hydra mountain facility crusade…

James heard parts of it, but never the _full _story. He also noticed how carefully the usually obnoxious billionaire was choosing his words, going for reserved instead of punching his way through with jokes and sarcasm, which… was a bad sign. A serious Tony Stark was a bad sign, because the man has practically seen _all_ of it, in spite of his semi-celebrity status, and then some, so for something to _faze _him…

God damn it.

"You know what's the most interesting part, Frosty?"

"No?"

"SHIELD sent _agents _there. And by _agents_ I mean Barton and Romanoff."

"Huh."

"A friend of mine scraped the place clean, so all they could do upon arrival was admire the scenery," Tony smirked, a bit darkly. "It's not _the_ problem, though. The _real_ problem? It's happening again…"

“Hydra? Or the aliens?”

“I’m sure we chopped the last Hydra head off about the same time Snowflake and I stormed the base, but Friday is monitoring the world media nonetheless… and yes, the aliens. _One_ alien and it’s a sea dragon.”

For a second James could only stare, because… sea dragon?! Sunny was faster on the uptake – it took one close look at them for him to guess what was cooking in Tony’s mind’s kitchen. And then the former Wolf Spider smiled…

When they pooled their resources that evening Tony was surprised to find out that they were a pretty skilled bunch! When he brought up the specs of the USS _Missouri_, Marat and Artyom might have wolf-whistled. To a sailor’s eye she was a Miss Galaxy type of babe, meaning - gorgeous in everything. Carl lowered his glasses, narrowing his eyes at the image. Claus simply leaned in, calculations running in mind… and suddenly Tony felt himself doubting: was their old man really a carpenter? And students of which university were they going to be if the war hadn’t started?

“How fast can she go?”

“Emm, 33 knots?”

“Huh. Spry…”

“It is?” the billionaire felt _so_ out of his depth here; SI, as a company, never busied herself with ships to the point of building her own. They built components for ships, sure, but the closest he got to the naval theme was the Helicarrier Project he did for SHIELD.

“61 km/h… on water. Where does she get her power from?”

“Four steam turbines,” Gustav raises his head, interested, and just for him Tony throws in a little explication. “The principle of the thing is not so different from a locomotive. The steam runs the turbine which makes the propelling screws turn, _in turn_… making the ship move.”

“… one turbine per screw?”

“Yes.”

“Black oil fuel, then…”

Tony peeked into his tablet and nodded.

“You’re right.”

“Coal wouldn’t burn hot enough…” and with that the German falls silent, shamelessly leaving everyone hanging. Uncle Mitya stifles a laugh.

“I get it that Mister Heinz knows his way around a steam turbine?”

“Like you said, Tony, the principle is the same, yes?” Uncle Mitya turns serious. “This article says the _Mighty Mo_ is a museum now. If it is anything similar to the _Aurora_, the combat potential of this vessel has to be… they had to cripple it to make it… safe.”

“They did! That’s why the first phase of this plan is to get _Mighty Mo_ to Murmansk where, hopefully, he’ll be given his fangs and claws back.”

“Why him?” asked Rudolph Jager; he had his signature pipe in hand, but with Morgan in the room there was no smoking taking action. “Why specifically this ship?”

“Its final docking place is in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. From all the known Navy battleship museums, it’s the closest one to Murmansk geographically speaking. Plus, the symbolism…”

“Do the Russians know you are about to drop on them with a WWII era battleship?”

Barnes, the voice of reason…

“I’ll make sure _everybody_ knows… about the dragon. Believe me, Freezer Burn, this will be enough for the world’s super-hero community to get all riled up, _simultaneously_ securing us enough time to do the do…”

The flight to Hawaii was just as eventful, because _Missouri _was huge, over two thousand seven hundred crew members on a good day, so the gang used the free time to get familiar with the blueprints and it was the next day when they saw what they really will be working with…

The _Missouri_ was still beautiful and dare he say majestic… even while chained to the pier. They divided into three groups and infiltrated the tourist crowd, strolling around the ship. Tony stayed inside the quinjet with the wolves, cataloguing all he was hearing through the earpiece and into a list: crucial repairs to the left, the urgent, but not so urgent - to the right, the more basic repairs – in the lower middle. Gustav and Uncle Mitya managed to ditch the surveillance and reach the engine room, and their plan nearly failed then and there, because… they didn’t just cripple _Mighty Mo_, like Uncle Mitya said earlier, they literally took away his ability to move on his own.

“Can we fix it?” asked Jurgen when the news spread. Gustav’s answer was laconically grave:

“We must.”

Well, thought Tony, we have some brilliant engineers on the team. What’s one sleepless night? He wasn’t okay with one thing, though…

“Morgan, when this clock strikes ten it’s off to bed with you!”

“But, Dad!”

“No ‘but’s, little lady! You’ll thank me later, when college hits…”

The pouty face attack he got was absolutely lethal never mind super cute. Tony smirked: his girl learned from the best, but… she wasn’t quite there yet.

“How about we strike a deal: you sleep, but I keep you posted if something interesting happens?”

The pouty face brightened up a bit.

“Promise?”

The smirk softened into a fond smile.

“Promise, honey-bee.”

“Fine then…”

***

She was out like a light by nine thirty.

***

While SHIELD and the UN Accords Committee experts were breaking their minds over the information Friday sent them (Mister D got a much fuller package, but that’s only because his baby-girl loved the guy), the USS _Missouri_ was headily remembering what it feels like to be a warship again…

A warship with no ammo, with guns reduced to training models and a busted heart which they got beating again, but only two turbines out of four. Would it be enough to set sail? The Muller brothers said yes. They wouldn’t be able to achieve full speed (those 33 knots that baffled Tony in the beginning), but it would be enough to voyage from point A to point B at a moderate pace.

“You’re too professional about this to be a novice, Claus, so… some German Naval school?”

The man shrugged, rather indifferently like it was a page in their lives read and turned. The three of them moved to one of the gun turrets: to take a feel of the remaining artillery and boy did these big guns remind Tony why he was so fascinated with Howard’s gun related projects in the first place… it was a short term kind of fascination, and he never really grew out of it, but hey you can’t make good weapons if you don’t love them, right?

“What can I say… if the war had started a few years later…”

“Three,” Carl corrected him from the lower level of the gun turret, where the gunpowder and shell cashes were located. “Three years.”

Claus rolls eyes:

“Does it matter?”

“Everything matters. The USSR would have built their first battleship, the Soviet Union-class _Soviet Union_, and we, on our newest submarine, would have been the ones sent to sink it.”

“We would have been the youngest captains on the fleet… or one of us would have been. Probably, Carl. He always liked to read boring books…”

“Huh,” Tony imagines it; doing it inside _Mighty Mo _is easy.

“Marat and Tyoma would have been on that ship as well. Maybe, one of them would have been an officer by then or, perhaps, a captain too…” Claus shares a small smile with Carl. “And then we would have had a sea duel... and died in it.”

“You’re a ray of fucking sunshine, aren’t you?”

Now it’s Carl who does the shrugging.

“Submarines and battleships are existential enemies: either we sink our mark or the mark sinks us. That’s why we enlisted into the infantry - odds of surviving _and_ meeting our soulmates were significantly better.”

“Numbers don’t lie, huh?”

“No, they are usually very honest.”

Meanwhile, on the captain’s bridge, Artyom shows Yakov what looks like a fuel level indicator. His expression is grim. The arrow showing said fuel levels is scraping the bottom of the indicator and the Soldier feels a smirk coming forth:

“Scavenging for fuel again?”

“Well, Uncle Yasha, if you _can _secure us several tankers of masut I will be eternally grateful and forever in your debt. The tanks aren’t empty - Marat cracked one open, looked in and said we have enough fuel for a small voyage around the islands, but if we want to go into open waters…” the former sailor draws a crooked line going up. “This ocean may be called the Pacific, but it really isn’t… and we will burn through our reserves within the hour.”

“Ideas?”

“Ask Andrei and his German if they can push these gears into motion like they do with their tank gears.”

Yakov asks, because it only sounds crazy on the outside. Andrei stares at him for a minute or two, then starts laughing, hysteria seeping through the cracks. Rudolph punches him in the side and it is not at all gentle, but it does snap him back into serious mode.

“I don’t know, but we’ll do it anyway.”

Three days later, in Murmansk-city harbor, where Seva and Colonel Zateinik were waiting for them with warm clothes, hot tea and Misha (the dog grew even bigger – how impossible is that?), one of the engineers with eyes wide in shock and awe asked Tony how they managed to brave the Pacific with fuel tanks dry as martinis all the billionaire could offer him was a tired smile and strategically not look in the direction of the ship’s nose where two tankers were bent over the railing like two human shaped rags with absolutely no power left to move.

The next five days were dedicated to work. Tony sponsored the repairs from his personal funds, so there was no need to expect a call from Pepper and have a conversation along the lines of… _где деньги, Люсь?! _(Lucy, where is the money?!) The crew working on Grandma Missy (the Russians didn’t know that Mo was mighty for the most part; for conspiracy’s sake no one really corrected them, plus the new nickname was kind of sweet) was super professional… and called back from vacations, because as big as the shipyard was, they hadn't people to spare for this _private _project, when the company was swamped with military commissioned work for the first time in years, but all complaining stopped when specialists – everyone from simple workers to high-end engineers - saw what was waiting for them in the dry docks…

NDA’s were signed, of course, but people were ready and willing to work on rough enthusiasm alone which was a new one in Tony's book. Well, _he_ could work this way, but an entire factory? Seva explained it with that ever present Russian curiosity (we do it this way - how do they do it?), but the billionaire had a hunch it ran slightly deeper than that.

"Why are you reconstructing an antique warship, Mister Stark? In its 1944 glory at that…” Colonel Zateinik was as serious as a dagger to the kidney. Tony countered with a dazzling smile:

“Don’t believe me to be that eccentric, do you?”

“No. I believe you want to fight the sea monster with it. And you’re not the man who does things with no reason…”

“Well, sometimes I really do!” Tony tries laughing it off. “That one time in Vegas was _all_ over the news…”

“Hm,” the Colonel isn’t buying it, so Tony drops the act:

“High-end tech won’t work. Not against this beast.”

“And you know this… how?”

“I have my sources. And don’t tell me Master Anwar didn’t do any research of his own…”

The agent smiles, confirming that yes, Master Anwar indeed hit the books and, apparently, his research brought in some gruesome results.

“… how bad is it exactly?”

“I am an atheist, Mister Stark, so when people start talking about magic and spirits I consider them strange. Master Anwar understands this and tries to not burden me with philosophical gibberish. He said that this dragon is someone else’s vassal. Its master may be collaborating with our common enemy or may be persuaded into collaborating with our common enemy, but if we break the link between them, the beast might go mad…”

“Oh shit…”

“The Master suggests we remove the vassal oaths binding the dragon to its current master and transfer them to someone trustworthy, but from _our_ side. This should pacify the beast until we figure out what to do with it.”

“Sound plan, looks like.”

“It isn’t. The spell caster needs to be literally under the snake’s nose for it to work… not a risk I am willing to take.”

"My, ehem, _source_ told me that you need to beat it to a pulp before doing any magical mambo-jumbo… something about its own magic acting as a built in force field?"

"Oh. Why doesn't it stop _all_ types of weapons then?"

"...that would be a very logical thing to do, but, sadly, we're not the ones who write the laws here."

The Colonel must have written a - missive? no, a report! - to the high military command, because on day eight Tony gets officially acquainted with the colossus that is _Admiral_ _Kuznetsov_. Steam powered, just like Grandma Missy. Coincidence it is not…

That same evening the rest of the Defenders arrive. It is good to see them all again. Haar, the big cuddle werebear, hugs the life out of Tony in greeting - the engineer swears he could hear his bones creak – before bumping his mighty fist with Yakov’s metal one. From the corner of his eye Tony can see the Red Baron kissing the air over Katerina's hand – a sign that not everybody here was born in a barn… or the barracks for the matter. Katerina lets the attention flow over her elegant persona with the grace of a queen… it’s all theatrics after all, because Tony could swear that she and Haar were involved to the point of being absolutely married. Khan and Anwar settle for simple handshakes and polite semi-bows. What's a reunion without a little scare, which the geomancer's semi-sentient sand is _too_ happy to provide… chose the wrong human to prank, though, because all Gustav did was quirk an eyebrow at the black tendrils squeezing his arm in a tight handshake. Mischief status: failed.

On day nine the head engineer announces that everything and anything that could be fixed got fixed, and Tony, while doing a little happy dance in the depths of his mind, suggests they take Missy out for a test drive, but the moment Marat took the helm a potentially fatal flaw was uncovered. You see, you can’t man a 2400 crew ship with one hundred times less people no matter how well they perform as a team: the radars were pretty subpar compared to their modern brothers and sisters, long distance shots most likely would require a spotter sitting up high with a set of binoculars and the rest would have to run like crazy from battle station to battle station to keep up with the commands coming from the bridge…

Master Anwar proposes a solution, and even Tony has to lower his favorite red-tinted shades, because what the geomancer says is bordering on unbelievable.

“Let the ship steer itself”, he says.

“How?” Tony asks. “Without an AI helper…”

“No-no, what I suggest is not technological,” Anwar smiles a soft enigmatic smile. “It is a rather _spiritual_ solution. You see, once I made peace with my mate, I, unknowingly, stepped onto a new plane of power and strange things started to occur…”

“Anwar is talking about that humongous shipwreck that appeared on the Curonian Spit seemingly out of _nowhere_,” Khan rolled his eyes. “Scared the local fishermen into calling the police and the police into messaging D… imagine our surprise when this half-rotten, half-rusted husk tries shooting at us from its four nonexistent gun turrets!”

“… did it hit?” Carl, ever the pragmatic guy, ignored the ‘haunted ghost ship’ theme altogether. “Was the aim true?”

“I don’t know. No guns to estimate that from, remember?”

“Did you manage to find out… what ship it is?”

“D needed only one scan of the thing to give a 98% probability of the wreck being _Warspite_… the famous battleship of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, an active participant of both World Wars.”

“Didn’t the Brits tear him down for parts?” ironically, it was Dima who voiced the obvious; _Grandma Missy_ made them hit the books both literally and figuratively – it didn’t make all of them sailors, of course, _but_ it made them the next best thing.

“They did! Partially, at least…” Anwar’s cheer, however, lacked most of the cheer. “Then one dark cloudy Scottish night… he disappeared from the place where he took ground never to be seen again. Until now.”

“… wow!” Dima sounded shocked. “So you think the ship’s ghost sensed the change in your magical vibrations, rose from the depths and _came_?”

“_Warspite_ still wants to fight… and his help and experience would be invaluable for you.”

Members of the Wolf Pack exchange looks, but, let’s face it, this isn’t the craziest thing they have done lately. What’s one haunted ship?

“Okay, let’s do this!” Tony closed his eyes for a second, letting the absurdity of the situation sink in; make peace with it, Stark, pronto! “Do we need to go there? To this Spit?”

“No need. I can summon the spirit to us with little effort…”

Anwar was lying, though. When Tony saw _Warspite_ in person, in all his half-transparent glory…

_Little effort,_ my ass.

The guy makes _Grandma Missy_ look like a true lady: young, elegant and pleasantly curvy.

“God, this will never work…”

“Cheer up, dusha moya! Like we, Russians, often say, hope perishes last…”

On day ten they do the test drive: escort _Admiral Kuznetsov_ around the bay and along the northern coastline, like a proper battleship should. Protect the carrier at all costs! _Admiral Kuznetzov_ humored them, politely not mentioning the fact that he, even without the usual aerial support, could pulverize whomever he pleased himself. The _Admiral_ was a gentleman.

They were about to return, necessary statistics gathered, just waiting to be analyzed, when Friday, having intercepted the Avengers alarm, dropped the bomb on them all.

The sea dragon attacked a passenger cruise ship and they were the closest ones to the spot.

***

Their ship was American, the soul haunting it - British, the voice in the inner radio spoke with a distinctive Russian accent, and out of all the officers behind the big guns the only one trained in artillery was German.

Rudolph Jager would laugh, but… he was too busy catching that fleeting moment of perfect equilibrium that allowed the tower he was in charge of to shoot. _Warspite _was doing the loading and turning, but the rest of it? Jager's job.

The bond from Andrei's side was vibrating like a guitar string. The young man was facing similar challenges and unlike Rudolph he was not so adamantly confident in his personal success. The problem of pre-war education in the Soviet Union - all of it had a high degree of specialization. And Andrei could be considered the lucky one - his class was among the last who got the regular two year educational program which concentrated on _all_ aspects of waging war in a tank, and not the three month express course…

He could have learned many other things… but Jager shot him down before he could even think about it. The tragedy of their relationship.

Rudolph tapped into the unique link they shared thanks to Dietrich and Tishka, two rogue AI, residing not in some ethereal place called a server room, but under their very _skin_…

Like Stark would say, kinky.

_Pilot One to Pilot Two: Stop fidgeting. It won't improve your aim. _

_Pilot Two to Pilot One: How can you be so calm, Rudy? _

_Pilot One to Pilot Two: Have I told you the story how Gantram and I took revenge on an American bomber? _

Silence, but the guitar string that was their bond gave out a started chord. Rudy smiled.

_Pilot One to Pilot Two: If we, a couple of dumb Germans, could shoot a bomber out of the sky using a cannon that couldn't do a tenth of what this one can, than you could do the same and better… _

_Pilot Two to Pilot One:.. fine._

_Pilot One to Pilot Two: What? I can't hear you, Andryusha. Must be the insufferable static! _

_Pilot Two to Pilot One: I said, fine!_

And just like that the string starts humming with anticipation, sending sparks of adrenaline over his left clavicle, down the hollow of his neck straight to the heart…

'Mirror marks' their marks were called in the laboratory. He bore his on the left side, Andryusha - an identical one on the right. The last words they said to each other, engraved in eternity...

_Встретимся на другой стороне (__Meet_ _you_ _on_ _the_ _other_ _side__)..._

"Armorpiercer… heat… two-one…" he was voicing out his commands like he usually did when in a tank; an habit born out of long periods of time spent elbow to elbow with four people. The ship, though, easily related anything he said across all possible borders with supernatural ease. "Tower one, follow my lead. Tower three, critical hits are yours."

"Understood."

"Understood."

"Tower two has eyes for Red Baron. Tower one follows the White Wolf. Tower three goes American."

"Understood."

"Understood."

"We are a battleship, men. Think, act, move as a battleship."

Mein Gott, his old instructor at tank school would have made him the laughing stock of the group for even suggesting such gibberish…

Fuck you, Herr Steiner. You didn't know modern warfare then, you won't mess with my decisions now.

"Think like a battleship? That's something I haven't heard before…" mumbled Barnes from his perch somewhere on the central mast. "Sounds swell… better than the think-like-a-gofer trope our regiment Sargent utilized each time we had to dig ourselves in anyhow…"

"I thought you were the Sargent?" inquired Sunny from his post in the engine room.

"Nah, doll. That was after…"

"Gofers are clever," said Morgan from the bridge matter of factly. "They dig underground labyrinths."

"They do? Damn…"

Banter… banter was nice… but they had work to do. The deep metallic growl that rattled the _Missouri _from nose to stern sounded like agreement.

"Bloodthirsty…"

"Зато наш (But he is ours now) …"

"You want to adopt him, Tyoma."

"Yes, I do."

Which was understandable. All of them had someone or something besides themselves and their significant other: Jager had Dietrich, Andryusha had Tishka, Stark was Ironman, Yakov cared for his beloved pistol, Gustav and Uncle Mitya had Oldman, who was now snoozing in one of the museums of Kaliningrad, Barnes and Sunny found their dream bike, Jurgen and Dima had eyes only for each other at the moment (ah, the power of youth!) and only the twins were sailors without a boat…

They _were_ adopting the ghostly sea vessel and that’s final.

“Tower three, ready to shoot.”

“Tower one, battle ready.”

“Tower two, ready… align us, bridge.”

The ship shifts into a battle-stance, resembling a peaceful big grey whale who suddenly adopts hunting habits of an orca: the beat of the ship’s mechanical heart, those four steam turbines that gave them so much grief, increases in pace, turning into a steady reassuring rumble… 

_Missouri_ was gaining speed.

The plan… there was no plan. What they were doing now was thrown together, like Russians often say, on a knee: you do this, I do that and we both hope for the best. _Admiral Kuznetsov_ was going light, therefor he had the spaces where people could be evacuated to, so it was up to good old Missy to _lure_ the dragon _away_…

The warning shot connected, but it wasn’t enough. It made the beast angry, but didn’t threaten its existence enough for it to change targets. Conclusion: they have to _make it_… with an iron fist, if need be.

“Broadside, two out of three: tower one – coils one and two, tower two – taking coils three and four, tower three – try for a headshot. If not, support towers one and two. Fire when ready…”

A missive from the bridge comes only minutes later.

“You are aligned.”

“Aim… and fire.”

***

They called him the Iron Kaiser behind his back. Jager feigned ignorance usually, but Andrei saw… and for quite some time couldn’t fathom why he detested the name so much – it suited him! He learned why when another vicious torture session kicked him out of his body straight to Rudy’s side, who, which wasn’t at all surprising considering the situation on all fronts, was in the middle of battle.

The scenery was unfamiliar.

They weren’t in the Union anymore.

In places were Andrei would have screamed and cursed up a storm, Jager did not. He was cold and dispassionate, his orders brooked no argument and they were meticulously followed to the letter, because… there were very few _soldiers_ left in the German army towards the end and the ones sent to replace the dead and missing were mostly inexperienced boys. Andrei knew by now that those who rode with Jager had a much higher survival rate, because _he, _unlike those youngsters taking command of other machines, knew what he was doing. That responsibility almost turned him into a killing machine…

Much like Yakov, Rudy had been a military man for most of his seven lifespans (some lives were shorter than others, but he _always_ wore a uniform of some sort) and Germans always had a very specific image of how a perfect soldier should look, act and behave. Andrei had seven lifespans to accept it and he had seven lifetimes to learn how to _break through it_ to the man underneath. Didn’t mean it didn’t scare him every time…

Today, though, the Iron Kaiser felt a bit differently. Rudy was cracking jokes! Sort of…

And if _he_ can do it, then Ivolgin can do it too.

“Странная штука жизнь, Варюша… (Life is a strange thing, Varyusha…) вот вчера только против фрицов воевали, а теперь вместе с ними космическую гадину бьем (seems like just yesterday we fought the krauts and now we’re alongside them facing off against some space yahoo)… но это неплохо, Варюшка (but it’s a good thing, Varyushka)! С ними я хотя бы уверен, что нам свои же не засадят в зад чего-нибудь (With them I’m at least confident that we won’t be bent down and screwed with something unpleasant by our own)…”

The ship doesn’t answer him with words, he’s a ghost, he can’t speak – just some handles suddenly start turning smoother and the aiming mechanism is suddenly much more user-friendly than during the first series of shots. Ivolgin can't help a grin.

"Дадим ему прикурить! (Let's give him hell!)"

Anticipate, aim, shoot. Aim, anticipate, shoot. Reload. Artyom aligns them under Marat’s command spoken through Claus's voice. It's like some twisted form of dance: one-two-three, turn, one-two-three, turn…

The dragon, finally, let's go of the cruise ship. The bastard is not so glossy anymore, bleeding from several light wounds, the glow in his scaled tattoos an angry blue. When he attacks them, it resembles a cobra strike. Marat evades. Tower three does a turn, facing back, and Jurgen… pushes the trigger on all three. One misses, but two land: a side of the dragon's head explodes in flames, plus that second shell breaks one of his majestic horns right off. The dragon roars, the blue glow fading into pulsing purple, and somehow it feels like joking time is over.

"Baron, Wolf, American - off the tower and behind the anti-aircraft guns on starboard side," Marat’s voice is grave. "Dima, Gustav, Red – the same on port side… he is about to engage."

"Roger… and call me Bucky already, I won’t break."

“You know who was a Bucky at my Grandpa’s farm? A stallion, who bucked… and he didn’t end well. Mister Stark…”

"Tony."

"... Tony.”

“Already on it! Munchkin, with me…"

One might think that a warship is no place for a child, but who said this clearly didn’t know Morgan Stark… _they_ were lucky to know Morgan Stark, because the girl was a godsend. A bit childish in that sparkly, bubbly way, but girls _need_ to be sparkly and bubbly when they are seven… and it was she who designed the ship’s main ‘shield’. Tony just corrected a few things from the high perch of his superior engineering experience, simplified a few overcomplicated bits and, maybe, built a force-field amplifier which… turned out looking like a water lily. Well, Yakov told it was a water lily - his light is a nature friendly guy, he knows these things…

_Why a flower, though?_

_Optimal form, Daddy, like a satellite dish!_

_Ri-ight… and I’m the Queen of England._

Watching the two Starks interact was better than any comedy show even if Andrei hadn't the brains to understand half of the stuff they were talking about. In the meantime Marat hailed their other naval ally:

“Kuzya, what’s your status?”

“It’s _Admiral_ Kuzya to you, sailor… evacuation is in full swing: top decks are evacuated, Khan is searching through the cabins, Katerina is doing the same from the sea, Avengers are assisting on all fronts… Haar is on organizing duty, while Master Anwar…”

“Колдует? (Working his magic?)”

“Да (Yes)," Colonel Zateinik was as laconic as ever.

“Это хорошо… просто замечательно… (That is good… absolutely splendid…)” Marat hums something resembling a song under his breath. “Crew, brace for extreme maneuvering.”

"Extreme?"

"What a polite way to say you're going to throw us around like a golf ball in a washing machine…"

"Claus, lapochka (dearest), shh…"

"Am I hindering Carl's thought process again?"

"No, just his ability to hear."

Carl typically does not curse, but for them he made an exception. Some curses were familiar, others Andrei never heard before. The banter acts like a whistle on a tea kettle releasing excessive stress, because the dragon while switching colors switched tactics as well. The beast dived, virtually disappearing among the unfriendly waters of the Northern Pacific. He could be anywhere… and they were sitting ducks.

"The Avengers request permission to board."

"Permission denied."

"The Captain is asking…"

"Permission denied. We're in the middle of a combat situation here."

"He says the helicarrier scanners give a one hundred percent probability that the serpent left."

"No, he didn’t," Marat’s voice hardens. "If we think like a battleship, then he started thinking like a submarine."

Which… was a bad thing. Andrei knows. He was in multiple battles, where Red Army soldiers tried to cancel out Rudy's _Panther_ with a bundle of hand grenades. The secret is to remain unseen until the last possible moment, then close the distance from a blind spot and…

"Бу-ум… (Bo-om…)" lips whisper on their own, but the Russian tanker pays this little mind. "Marat, take us into shallow water."

"Oh, I like the way you're thinking…" their captain thought the same thing.

"D just dropped four sets of coordinates on my starkphone… and Fri just notified me she lost our guest on _all_ thermoscans, which _means_ that the dragon's body temperature evened out with that of the surrounding ocean… hello, stealth mode!" Stark was in his element too.

"Acoustics show he is still here… I can hear him swimming circles around _the Missouri_ and _Admiral Kuznetsov_," while Claus specialized in communications, Carl was trained as a specialist in acoustics… the sea listener.

"How?"

"The horn Jurgen damaged disrupted his aquadynamic form. Distinctive sound pattern…"

"Huh…"

"The Captain is hailing us again. As is the helicarrier."

"Да они там, что с ума посходили? (Are they all crazy out there?) Claus, zvezda moya (my star), tell them…"

He doesn’t get to finish, because the disaster on their very eyes does a level up: when the helicarrier majestically appears over their heads seemingly out of thin air on an unwisely low altitude, confident in its safety (100%!)… and gets attacked.

It’s fast. It’s sudden. But Andrei still manages to land three shots in the serpent’s side on instinct alone - his gun tower just happened to be pointed in the right direction when the magical beast blasted forth through the waves. It knocked the dragon off course somewhat, so instead of plowing through hangars and landing decks with its head, jaws and one remaining horn, it hit one of the four turbines keeping the helicarrier afloat and tore it right off. Makes you think about the time when Hawkeye tried bringing down SHIELD HQ under Loki’s influence and how infinitely _gentle_ he was with his arrows…

A pillar of red mist shoots up from over the waves, unmasking the quinjet’s position in favor of trying to if not catch (Tony doubted Wanda became that strong this fast) but _stabilize_… the very thing the dragon was waiting for, because the speed the beast homed in on her was borderline astounding.

“Get her out of there… get her out…” Master Anwar sounds strained over the comms. “The Stone magic… it is the source of the spirit’s anguish…”

Marat hums something musical under his breath. The man has something on his mind.

“Admiral Kuzya, report rescue mission status?”

“Rescue mission… complete.”

“Counter spell status?”

“… the candles started burning green.”

“… Claus?”

“I hailed him.”

The quinjet darts their way pushing the engines of Tony’s creation to the extreme, but when you’re up against a skyscraper-sized thing be ready to get squished. Using the planet’s gravity to its fullest the water spirit does a graceful predatory turn mid-air and executes a nearly perfect cobra strike in the Avengers craft’s direction… hot damn, how _smug_ he’s looking, eyes ablaze in bloody triumph!

Right until Marat barks out:

“Intercept!”

And Artyom throws the ship into a maneuver so sharp those on the bridge could see the dead serious expression on Nat’s face through the cockpit as the quinjet zaps past on breakneck speeds. Simultaneously towers two and three align according to the battleship’s position (and Artyom threw them in-between the hunter and his prey _again_) and they hear Jager’s calm command:

“…fire.”

It didn’t stop the dragon, not really. You’ll need something akin a star destroyer to do _that_, but if Grandma Missy were a boxer (and that’s an interesting thing to imagine, thank you very much, Tony!) the synchronized volley of six 406mm cannons would equal a nasty punch to the gut. Staggering…

In the background they see the helicarrier starting to keel over without Wanda’s wholehearted support. The witch was demonstrating insane amounts of concentration holding the craft up during the extremely turbulent flight Nat was subjecting her crew to, but the further away they got from the target of her concentration efforts the harder it became to hold it together, because, apparently, magic has range too…

“Drop it, witch! I’ll catch it, if you drop it! Stark, what in the world are you lot trying to do here?” a new voice enters the field and it is Loki, because, of course, it is. Competent magical assistance _is_ a rare thing these days…

Red mist is replaced by a bright emerald colored hue, and Tony feels that it’s the appropriate moment to let some of his icy rage go. Extremis responds to the rise of emotions by flashing his eyes molten gold behind the signature shades, but it’s only for a second and they have other things to worry about.

“What we’re doing? What in the hell you’re trying to do?! You’ve just _pointlessly_ killed several dozen people!”

“You _are_ telling me, Stark, or… I’m sending Thor in.”

“You’re blackmail tactics suck!” Tony sighs. “We’re trying to lift the vassal claims.”

“_Vassal_ claims?”

“That monster right there? He’s not single, Reindeer Games… there’s a person on the other end who’s willingly or unwillingly…”

“Stop, I got it… the other voice I’ve heard over this communication device is from fellow sorcerer I am assuming? If you _are_… how exactly are you planning to break the unbreakable?”

Master Anwar wasn’t easily cowed, however.

“Ah, the bond _may_ be unbreakable, yes… such an unimaginably unwise waste of power and resources that would have been… but! We are going to annihilate the sorcerer host instead.”

“And if he is innocent?”

“Our enemy does not tolerate failure… you should know best…”

Loki goes uncharacteristically silent after that. He doesn’t even ask Master Anwar how a perfect stranger found out about his brief deal with the Mad Titan. They could hear Fury bark orders and Hill relaying reports, trying bringing the order _back_…

“Stark?”

“What?”

“Have you tried _talking_ to him? Ancient spirits are perfectly capable of coherent speech.”

“Well, I _would_ have, but… he started it! And how would I even accomplish this shindig – all the guy does is roar!”

They are interrupted by Claus.

“The Avengers have disembarked, and the Captain is leading them here. Has our course of action changed?”

“No. We’ll just have to consider this new information now… and adjust.”

***

There was something seriously wrong with this ship. Apart from it being Tony’s new project and Tony’s projects tended to be… over the top at best and _way_ into the stratosphere at worst. It wouldn’t go past him to integrate a state of the art computer into this old shell and all the crazy maneuvering and insane shooting was an Ultron look-alike running wild.

…turned out things were a lot more simple.

Steve saw a lot of familiar faces on that ship: on the deck behind the anti-aircraft artillery (a type of gun he never saw before – it had four gun barrels), sitting behind radio stations, on the bridge, at the helm… saw _Bucky _who nodded in greetings… saw the little Stark girl surrounded by giant wolves holding her little hands over some holograms at her tiny battle station (God, she _did_ look like him!)… saw Tony doing pretty much the same, only his battle station was a bit bigger and had an extra set of holograms showing…

“Quit staring, Rogers. We’re in the middle of combat here…”

“Ha-ha, Stark… we noticed."

Clint got masterfully ignored; Tony's attention moved to a more worthy target.

“Wanda, you okay? Didn’t pull an ethereal muscle, did you?”

“… I thought I could do it… hold it up… heavy… so much pain, so much death…” the witch was still fighting a severe case of shivers; made the engineer remember that her telekinesis ability was directly wired into her telepathic prowess. He could sprinkle salt on _that_ wound and throw a comment (or five) about what happened in Lagos… he _could_…

"This is war, baryshnya (young lady)," Marat did it for him. The Russian didn't even turn to look at them, eyes focused on the dragon, who was stalking _them_ now, both carriers forgotten. Recognized where his true opponent was; talk about _finally_. "It may not look it, gentlemen and ladies, but the conflict just moved past the passive-aggressive stage…"

"What are you talking about?" the Captain moves forward, a slight frown falling upon his features. They make a striking image, because Marat is of smaller height, has a slimmer build and isn’t wearing a combat uniform which added authority by default.

"New York was a test,” says the Russian. “With effort and casualties, but you passed it. The enemy altered his strategy accordingly to gauge your reaction to something humankind hasn't encountered since times so ancient they turned into legends… and this _new_ test we are failing already."

"So you're saying that after helping save those people we should have just… _stepped back_?!" Sam, incredulous and hurt to the core, couldn’t hold it inside.

"Yes."

"What's _wrong_ with you, man?! How could we possibly leave you to fight this thing alone?! Or was all that all for one/one for all talk for show?!"

A groan of barely suppressed fury echoes throughout the ship’s metal halls like a whisper of imminent doom… and Sam shuts up shocked into silence. The floor starts vibrating under their feet, and Steve notices in awe how the marvelous painting hanging on the wall of the captain’s bridge (a beautiful nocturnal seascape done by the famous Russian marine painter Aivazovsky, if he remembers his art history right) changes into something malicious and threatening, hidden behind a sea battle scene done by the same painter. But then Wanda crumbles to her knees with a muffled scream, one hand pressed to her temple, holding onto an extremely lost-looking Vision with the other… and suddenly it’s not so fun anymore.

Marat's face is an unreadable mask.

"...you should really grow up. Saving lives is important. Saving _civilian_ lives is twice as important, because _they_ did not sign up for any of _this_. Fighting something big with something little and _winning_ certainly looks heroic… on posters, мать твою так (you motherfucker)! _Real life_! Real life… is different, so do not tell me what is _wrong_ with me, American, because you have _no idea_! The moment you set foot on this ship any form of personal rights you might have had were officially nullified: you either be useful or be quiet… Varyusha! Stop harassing the young lady! Crew, prepare for the final assault! Tony, how are our defenses?"

“All green!” Tony emphasizes his words with thumbs up.

“Engine room, report status?”

“Maintaining battle speed with little difficulty,” a cheerful reply came from the lower decks, partially drowning in rhythmic mechanical noise; they didn’t use anything resembling an intercom – the voice was coming from the _walls_ themselves. “We can give you more, товарищ капитан (captain), but _only_ if you intend to shift gears with such vigor in the not so far future.”

Marat’s answering grin is equal parts coy and sheepish; a startling contrast to the display of absolute authority that steamrolled Sam over mere minutes ago:

“What can I say, Uncle Mitya, when you meet a lady like this: beautiful, loves to dance…”

“With big guns… pardon, big eyes?”

“Show me that sailor who doesn’t want to be a captain of a battleship and… Uncle Mitya! How can you make such nasty insinuations?! You’re supposed to be religious!"

“I am,” something akin to a smirk colors the older soldier’s voice. “But children aren’t found in cabbage patches… usually.”

“And now you make me feel mortified…” the dragon suddenly makes a move, changing his behavior pattern again, thinking like a battleship this time: half-submerged, horn up, teeth hidden, eyes ablaze, and Marat’s attention is instantly on him. “Here it comes…”

“No fleeing to the shallows, huh?”

“He’s not stupid. You say he is old, so how many times you think people tried to drag him in the open? I can even guess what his mission was: to be a Stone hunter! And baryshnya (young lady) should smell very appetizing to him, if I understand the facts right, so we are going to fight over _her_, duke it out the medieval way and with God’s blessing Master Anwar will curse him seven ways to Sunday by the time we’re through…”

“A fair fight would be appreciated,” came from Yakov’s side. It didn’t sound like an order, but Marat nods nevertheless, taking it to mind.

Steve expected to see clear-cut hierarchy (the very nature of the group demanded it!), but to his inner puzzlement he found himself facing _something_ he only saw at one place before – SHIELD headquarters. Yakov’s team was a band of professionals: formidable as hell, flexible as hell, willing to risk, accepting each other’s quirks, turning said quirks into unexpected advantages… and they were all _soulmate pairs_.

“Varyusha, sound the horn! We’re going in…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes of explanation:  
1\. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_cruiser_Aurora - one of the symbols of the Russian revolution, but to Uncle Mitya who saw the whole thing unfold personally it was very much real.  
2\. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sovetsky_Soyuz-class_battleship - something about the Soviet battleship, they never built( sadly, it only exists in the video game 'World of Warships')  
3\. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ZSU-23-4_Shilka - the anti-aircraft guns that baffled Steve) they couldn't find any authentic 1940s guns for Grandma Missy, so they put the next best thing ;)  
4\. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Missouri_(BB-63) - Grandma Missy)  
5\. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HMS_Warspite_(03) - Varyusha X) there is an extremely fun and funny historical video about this battleship, but sadly it's in Russian ((  
6\. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_aircraft_carrier_Admiral_Kuznetsov - the only Russian aircraft carrier.  
7\. https://infrastruct.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/kal-oblast.jpg - the Curonian Spit is that long patch of land separating the Curonian Bay from the Baltic sea.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The powers clash...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, folks, with a new chapter! Lived to see the day... X))  
Hope, it turned out at least half as epic as I imagined it)
> 
> If you spot any mistakes, please, let me know, because feedback is important =)

They miscalculated.

The best and simultaneously the absolute worst in all things linked to myth was the _vagueness _of it all: here is the Hero, there dwells the Monster, welcome Mage/Sidekick, hello Ultimate Weapon crafted by a bunch of Dwarves in some shady Forsaken-But-Surprisingly-Well-Preserved-Smith…

When you’re a kid, it lights your imagination landscapes with the power of twenty suns. When you have to solve _problems_ revolving around dungeons, dragons and artifacts of immense power, though… he hated magic, but this? He hates _this_ even more…

The sea dragon came at them full force, honorable in his own way, and it took one, exactly_ one_, laser breath to shed light on the painfully obvious: they miscalculated and even M’s lily cranked up to the max won't be enough to _deflect_… heck, it was barely enough to _weaken…_

The hit hurt. That helicopter landing pad Mo had? Not there anymore.

Marat’s reaction was predictable.

“Abandon outer battle stations! All crew members – inside the armored citadel! Шевелите булками, мужики, а то есть риск эти булочки подрумянить! (Get a move on, men, or your buns might get toasted!)”

“Did you know he could do that?!” usually it was Dima with the emotional outbursts, but the young miner was too busy running down ladders and corridors, so this mission had befallen on his better half. Jurgen did his best.

“… unexpected,” agreed Gustav and Manfred, who was running right behind him, couldn’t help a breathy laugh.

“Gustav, my friend, you never disappoint…”

"Do we have an adequate response?" Rudolph Jager did not abandon his post – he saw no point in mindless hassle. Gun tower armor was thick enough to protect him from anything save another battleship and if this mysterious light beam should hit… well, things happen. His Andryusha hadn’t budged as well, thinking along the same lines. Dying together in battle seemed to be their preferred way to go.

All eyes turned to Tony. The engineer, after a brief moment of pause wasted on examining the glowing lily, gives them a tense nod.

"Yeah… but we need more juice."

Yakov, curse (or, maybe, bless?) his perceptive pagan soul, figures out Tony’s dirty plan in two seconds flat.

"Antosha," the Soldier never threatens, but the way he said Tony's name… a very freaking close thing. But the engineer wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t try tackling this issue:

"It's the only way, Snowflake! There isn't anything even _remotely_ as powerful on this boat, apart from… _this_."

Yakov wasn’t easily swayed.

"... no."

"I'm still going to do it."

"No."

"Yasha…" Tony didn't know that he could sound like this: absolutely shattered and on the verge of begging. "Come on, love… not like it can kill me anymore, plus, it's a new generation arc reactor! It won't fail… it _can’t_ fail... I didn’t build it to just _break_ on me!"

The tirade they hear next is more feral growl than words, and it's perfectly understandable, because who in his right mind would tolerate his soulmate risking his life or his _heart_…

"Okay, so you have a better idea?"

"... yes, I do."

And now it's Tony, who catches on first, and everything in him rears its head up in protest:

"Oh, _hell_ no!"

"Antosha…" and just like that the roles are reversed, and it is Yakov, who is the one pleading his soulmate to reconsider.

"Don't you _Antosha_ me! Last time this shit was done to you there was no Yakov left to say hi to afterwards! And now you want to do it willingly?! Over my ashen corpse!"

“Make up your minds!” Marat’s roar cuts into their conversation. “He’s about to do it again!”

… they ended up doing everything anyway.

***

Bonds are heavily romanticized: books, movies, media. They are considered to be about _feelings_. Tony can argue. Yakov can argue. _All_ of them can argue, because… bonds aren’t about feelings at all. They’re about _emotional_ _connections_, which in turn _vary_…

Violence.

Tragedy.

Shock.

Hatred.

Experience one of those and you will never be the same man again…

The sea dragon dives, swims under the ship and attacks Grandma Missy from the flank. Through the lens of Extremis heightened senses Tony could practically _see_ the laser bubble to life behind that fortress wall which are the creature’s teeth… now it’s only a question of impeccable timing. So he reaches out through the very same Extremis to the, heh, _power within_… and feels the arc reactor crank up the volume, pumping energy down his veins and into his palms: x2, x3, x4, x5… x7 and climbing…

He had to be glowing and, if the rapidly rising temperature inside the bridge was any indication, like a tungsten wire inside a working lightbulb. Predictably, clothes were the first to go: seeping smoke, then catching flame, then falling away in flakes of ash which… burned into nothingness too. His Rolex soon followed, unrecognizable in that puddle of liquefied metal and cracked crystallized bits of glass happily bubbling by his left pinky toe. The shades held out the longest, but only due to the frame being crafted out of gold-titanium alloy…

“Рано (Early)…” the Russian super-soldiers didn’t seem to mind neither the temperature climb nor the human torch act, their eye fixed on the attacking serpent… probably, faked it shamelessly. “Рано (Early)… ”

“Tell me when, skipper… just tell me when…” talking was hard; you had to concentrate on pushing the words out and keeping the inner flames in; some still licked at his lips, no doubt making a pretty picture. “Gods, Snowflake, I’m so sorry… I’m so… so… sorry…”

The mark on his wrist scalded his senses with splashes of icy rage, before settling down to a state of steady snow storm. His light was furious with him, but at the same time…

“Давай! (Go!)” roared Marat, and Tony plunged both his burning hands into the purple glow of the water lily type amplifier without a second thought. The outwardly power enclosed in M’s Chitauri crystals came into a synergic resonance with the arc reactor energy… and _the Missouri_ ended up engulfed in a shell of blinding light from nose to stern. The energy beam hit it, couldn’t break through and slid off broken down into myriads of sparkling pieces of magical electricity.

The crew erupted in a chorus of victorious screams and animated cursing. Even the Avengers, who were sitting with their fingers crossed. Tony didn’t participate in this feast of life. He was too busy collapsing – after syphoning through his systems the energy that could power ten SI factories for a hundred years in mere _seconds_ he felt _drained_, as if he pushed all _his_ energy along with the excessive one.

“…Daddy? Daddy! Someone help Daddy!”

Morgan was screaming, fear coloring her voice with hysterical overtones. She, probably, thought she was losing him again, and sadly, he couldn’t prove her wrong this time around, because... hello, wet noodle state, long time no see…

Someone caught him… or tried to. Leather gloves reinforced with metal plating… Steve… he remembers making something like this for his Captain America suit. Good luck then, Steve! Too hot to handle, even for you…

“Jeez Louise, Stevie, move your butt to the side!” James arrived, his savior with a vibranium arm. “Stark’s like a fucking frying pan straight out of the oven right now… only ten times worse… Kotya, doll, help me out here, would you?”

“… sure, Jamie.”

Familiar metal hands pick him up, hold him steady… someone even found a fireproof blanket and draped it over his lower extremities. Yeah, good call. No need to scandalize the ladies more than necessary…

“… dragon?”

“Huh?”

“How’s… the… dragon?”

“Oh, pumpkin, don’t worry about it… your man is giving him the dance of his life!”

As if on que, a deafening roar echoes through the air. It’s so close it makes the whole frame of the ship shake and rattle, angering _Warspite_ into answering with a ghostly howl of his own… weaker, lost in the groans of stressed metal and sounds of shifting gears, because Artyom kicked Missy into a maneuver _again_, aiming for a broadside, big guns already aligned curtesy of Jager, Ivolgin and their boy Lieberbaum, tracking their target as if glued…

They didn’t get to shoot this time around. A giant white wolf, using the battleship’s starboard side as a trampoline, beat them to it.

In one mighty leap the beast closed the distance between his half-transparent form and the taken aback sea serpent, who wasn’t expecting to meet one of his kind on this backwater world, and with an almost sub vocal snarl went for the jugular…

Tony felt the exact moment when Yasha tore his soul in two and let the wolf in him out. It was laughably easy, the chains binding the soul to the body already shaken loose by Hydra and their Tesseract experiments and with no anchoring point his light will simply… float away! And die… terminally. The bond was already straining, trying to hold together two halves of a whole, one of which was already rapidly transcending _somewhere_ other than _here_…

They grew on each other, the wolf and the man, entwining like tropical vines and the soul bond, without further ado, generously branded them both. In his state of semi-conscientiousness the genius, led by some deep, half mystical, half pre-historic instinct, saw it, _their bond_, as a thin golden chain rushing into the great beyond… from an oddly familiar golden bracelet, clamped shut on his right wrist.

_Oh, Antonius… you never did forget, did you…_

Tony wasn’t Antonius, though. The kid was much braver than him: stood up to Yakov/Volk when nobody could, earned his mate’s eternal respect by pointing out mistakes in his decisions which nobody had the guts to point out…

That kid was something special.

That kid…

…was. In bits and pieces, he lived on, continuing taking care of his stubborn, proud, insanely brave, borderline crazy, overall _strange_ soulmate…

Tony looked at the bracelet, the chain… and, again due to some deeply engraved impulse, reached out, fortifying the bond, crafting and adding new linking elements instead of old and bent ones, refreshing the ones that still held. He reached the wolf somewhere along the line, looped the chain over his chest, under his belly, over his shoulders, constructing something akin to…

_…armor._

And, look, the Wolf isn’t an icy specter anymore! He has turned very much real.

Tony remembered smiling and mumbling something akin to ‘nailed it’. Then everything went dark…

***

The wolf was blind. Everything about the wound breathed old, but somehow… Loki could still see him bleed. Slowly… sluggishly… red rivulets continued to paint the wolf’s cheeks, giving him a look that could only be called _totemic_.

“Jesus…” whispered Bruce by his side. “Was this what you were expecting?”

Loki tsks:

“No.”

“No?!” his answer startles the doctor into a wide-eyed stare. The sorcerer would have shrugged if he wasn’t busy levitating the considerable bulk of the human ship. It wasn’t a burden, but still required a fraction of his concentration. SHIELD specialists should really up their skill in emergency repairs…

“I, dear doctor, expected something a little bit more… _whole_.”

“When has Tony ever received anything _whole_ in his life...”

“Valid point…”

When the wolf gains physical form mid-leap (!!), Loki understands that they underestimated Stark's fixing ability. That man was a monster: mere _months_ ago he had little to no idea how soul bonds worked and _now_ he was _manipulating_ the bond on a such subtle level that it made the Asgardian’s skin crawl. How? _Why?_

The serpent manages to evade by a hair’s width with a surprised croak, the wolf flies past with a whoosh… only to execute a catlike twist, land on all four paws and pounce again, changing the surrounding landscape in the process. One moment they are hovering over raging oceanic waters, the next – they are hovering over literal icy planes with waves scowling at them from below, frozen solid. The degree of the temperature drop is how Loki gauged the wolf’s strength, and what he saw made his skin crawl again…

The wolf clearly hadn’t meant to, but he trapped in ice _Admiral Kuznetsov _and put a stop to _Missouri’s_ vicious battle dance by freezing her in as well. Fatal mistake, says you. New opportunities, said _Missouri’s_ captain… and provided the wolf with cover fire from all the ship’s nine big guns. If they were lethal on the move, when stuck they somehow became even more lethal. Loki saw human figures moving on the upper levels of the central structure, binoculars in hand, correcting fire…

The sea dragon pried himself out of the icy clutches, not discouraged in the slightest, curled up into a tight armored ball against heavy artillery fire, narrowing his eyes on a new _interesting_ enemy… the ship was interesting too, but not like this… even the Stones and his mission were pushed on the backburner for _this_…

When they clashed, it was brutal. The spirits had no mercy for each other: fangs tore into scale, armored coils lashed out choking the life out of anything they could catch, ear-shattering roars versus near silent snarls and low chilling growls. The sea serpent even tried repeating his signature move by breathing magic induced flame at his opponent!

It cost him dearly for the wolf suddenly puffed up, almost doubling in size, dashed forward in an impressive display of speed and non-canine agility and… snagged the dragon right out of his pre-blast stance. Massive jaws clamped shut on the neck that in this very moment became so very bitable, and the winter spirit started to maul the thrashing and wailing imposter about. It was not the graceful dance between mongoose and cobra, but a much more familiar picture of a dog pulling apart his least favorite ragdoll. Blood paints the ice… and, oddly enough, it is red…

The battleship fell silent at some point of the fight, while still tracing the creature’s movements with weary, attentive eyes. Except for the middle tower – it turned with the rest, it aimed with the rest, but when the two others fired their last volley at the sea dragon, the middle tower… didn’t. It stayed turned and it stayed aimed, but not at the monster, but… at _them_.

Loki was no stranger to mistrust, but for some people on this ship it was still a surprise to be on the receiving end of the sentiment. SHIELD was created to protect, after all. But their Director made a mistake of offending, perhaps, one of the most powerful people of this realm by degrading the man to the role of a _tool_, and they were all suffering through the consequences.

There was an absolutely legitimate reason why the soulmate institute was considered something untouchable, undiscussable and, sometimes, even _above the law_, but, most likely, Fury just didn’t care. Too caught up in whatever webs upon webs of intrigue he was weaving, maybe? Loki didn’t know. What he did know, was the fact that the good and all-powerful Director of SHIELD wasn’t the one controlling the battlefield, because these northern Midgardians who called themselves Russians were.

A low grave rumble snaps Loki’s attention back to the present. Bruce’s hand is tightening on his shoulder and the Asgardian can’t help but smirk…

The wolf speaks!

The problem? Loki realizes with a start that he doesn’t recognize the dialect… _at all_.

***

The dragon, finally, _finally_ went limp and they let him go… or let him drop, which would have been a more accurate description, but Winter was feeling vindictive and Yakov/Volk was too. So they spit him out, pin him down with a paw and growl straight into his face:

“_Yield…and live._”

The beast pierces him with a sharp glare, beaten, but not broken, before dissolving into a series of hisses and screeches that suspiciously resemble laughter...

…pompous asshole.

Winter, baring his fangs in a way that could only be called manic, pushed his paw down, effectively choking the bastard into shutting up. He’d wish to quote the good Captain and boast that he could do this all day, but… he couldn’t, because Winter was holding onto him, he was holding onto Antosha and Antosha… fainted some time ago. He was still holding their shared bond in a vice like grip, though, weaving the wolf into it, powering up the spirit from his end of the bond as well…

His sunshine was a marvel. A generous… selfless… marvel, but there was only so much abuse his _human_ soul could take…

“_I would stop mocking me… you fought well and therein lays the only reason you continue to live after your defeat… or have you been a slave for so long the taste of freedom is nay but a distant memory?_”

The serpent glares at him, his hatred towards the wolf almost palpable. It would seem they hit a nerve! Winter lowers his head even more, manic grin widening into something a Cheshire Cat would have; they’re almost nose to nose when the winter spirit inquires once more:

“_What say you, lord of the sea? Do you still consider yourself a lord… or are you content to be called the lord of nothing?_”

“_All… mortals…are… the… same…_” when the dragon finally speaks it’s low and rumbly, a bit strained, because of the paw on his neck, but somehow it still managed to make the fur all over him stir with the shire power hidden behind it. “_Power hungry… thirsty for riches… breaking promises… always… you say things will be different… you say things can be different… how can I trust you… when you reek of mortal too…_”

“_This mortal saved my life… and asked for nothing. He kept me safe… told no one… and asked for nothing. We lived… and we died… free…_”

“_Golden chains… beg to differ…_”

“_My mortal’s soulmate… he is special…_”

The dragon stills, thinking it over, and the proposition he comes up next pleases Winter immensely, because it meant that they played the alien’s doubts and pains into their favor:

“_If you get rid of my master, lord of the ice, I am willing to surrender to the strongest among the mortals on that drakkar made of steel…_”

“_Your word?_”

“_You have it…_”

***

Something happened. One moment the two mythical beasts were at each other’s throats, rolling in clouds of icy dust, the other – the white wolf backed off, giving the sea dragon space to gather his bearings… quite a lot of bearings to gather too, if someone bothered asking such an insignificant looking gear of a man Sam was told he was…

Damn, those Russian twins were harsh. They may look the same, but, holly shit, they didn’t act the same at all! While Marat conducted the nine cannon orchestra with surprising skill, knowledge and dare he say _grace_, Artyom barely spoke. The man would just hold his hands on the helm and steer the ship in ways that should not be possible to places that should not be accessible… in absolute _silence_.

“James! Sunny! Carry Tony to one of the officer’s quarters! Dima! Baron! Where are you now?” Marat slipped into captain mode once again.

“Outside…” it was the Baron who answered him; the only sign that the younger man was with him were huffs and some through the teeth cursing. “We have located the Soldier…”

“Don’t make me pull the words out of you…”

“As if you could… the Soldier is not breathing, but I do not think he is dead… that kind of paradox, yes…”

“…твою мать (shit).”

“Are his eyes open?” a very odd question came from one of the tankers; Sam recognized him as Lieutenant Ivolgin, mostly due to the strange way he sometimes pronounced his ‘a’.

“…yes?”

“Not dead then,” the Russian smirked. “Just having an out-of-the-body experience…”

“You mean… м-мать (holy shit)!”

“It’s one of those strange _sniper_ things…”

“Keep your eyes on the target, you mean?” hummed the Baron; one might think absentmindedly, but in truth everything about the tone masked an undercurrent of deep concentration. “Then, perhaps, we should not move him at all…”

“Why?”

“Because he is still looking at it…”

A heavy silence descended upon the bridge. Marat, as the acting captain, was on the verge of making a tough decision. And he makes it by ordering:

“Leave him where he is, but… stand watch. I don’t know what the _heck_ is going on, but if Mom and Dad actually argued about the necessity of doing or not doing certain things - which they _never_ do – it must be important enough to keep the fragile balance… in balance.”

“Ratti, mein Gott, are you trying to make a pun?”

“I, zvezda moya (my star), wasn’t trying… I absolutely _did_.”

And how could Sam forget the German twins. If the Russians were just plain severe, like true descendants of the infamous John Rambo, these guys gave him the vibe of a couple of purebred Dobermans: long-limbed, long-nosed, confident in their absolute supremacy and, like elite guard dogs would always be, excellently trained… only there was a catch. There was _always_ a catch, and Sam, from the mount Olympus of his counseling expertise, could see its outlines all the way from where he was standing…

Someone beat the identity out of these boys… brutally. Behind his back Sam hears Hawkeye whisper to the Widow:

“…did you know Stark had Extremis, Nat?! I thought SHIELD put a lid on that thing!”

Nat replies with her patented brand of stoicism; Sam forgot the last time he saw the woman laugh, smile or even do as much as crack a bloody joke.

“We had the incomplete formula Stark surrendered to us after his reckless _stint_ with Aldrich Killian and his pet terrorist organization.”

“…was it supposed to be like this?!”

“No. It was much more… unstable.”

“…!” Clint was beyond politeness right now, because the only baseline human on the team, except him, the very one who prided himself for it among monsters and gods wasn’t human anymore. He turned himself into a freaking _star_! “You’ve got to be _kidding_ me… and Fury is pitting us against _this_?!”

“It could have been worse… could have been like Budapest…”

“Stark makes even Budapest sound… alluring.”

Sam frowned. He had a lot time to think prior to their hunt for the dragon and more or less figured out what altered Natasha’s behavior, and, boy, it was a chilling discovery for a Friday night evening, because it practically screamed bloodshed, carnage and another Civil War. The logical chain was rather simple: if Fury was down to such base things as _fishing for leverage_ that, luckily, would bring Stark back into the fold, it meant… nothing good for the agency. Viastone sold them technology they couldn’t sustain on their own, because it worked on principals that were literally out of this world, before going radio silent on levels that seemed disturbing, so SHIELD was reduced to living off the old, yet still trusty Stark legacy they, at least, knew how to maintain.

Embarrassing? Oh, yeah…

Wilson could vividly remember that one time he saw the contraption they expected him to fly: it was complex, glowed like a motherfucker, reminded him of vulture wings and Sam had _no idea_ how this thing worked which meant no field repairs.

Was Stone’s company really out of the game? When it was, seemingly, on the rise? Oh, Sam didn’t think so… and Nat, most likely, received her orders already and, because something inside her didn’t quite settle with them, the team was privy to these weird little mood swings she tried masking behind classical symptoms of post-mission stress and on-mission banter…

Speaking of on-mission banter… with Tony decommissioned and Yakov, if he understood the verbal exchange right, one foot in the _grave_, there was no one left to serve as a buffer between the two hero teams. Steve was still slightly out of it, sitting on the floor next to the remains of Tony’s expensive watch, staring at his severely burned hands as they slowly knit themselves together. Vision was comforting Wanda in the far corner of the bridge, gently holding the witch close as she quietly wept…

Footsteps they hear in the outside corridor are loud and heavy. The Avengers expect one of the seconds in command to stalk in, but no - it’s just Uncle Mitya, only this time around he’s not alone. The man following him is a silent, broody presence: light colored hair, styled in a recognizable German undercut, light colored eyes, maybe grey, maybe blue… and an absolutely unreadable face with chiseled Teutonic features. Sam felt icy fingers tickling the base of his spine, because… it was the guy from locomotive! The very same one, who steam-fried several people alive without batting an eyelid...

Uncle Mitya startles him out of his oh-my-gosh-what-are-we-going-to-do-with-this-maniac oriented thoughts by softly announcing:

“The phase of active combat is over. We are expected outside for negotiations. Malyshka (dear girl), your father regained consciousness. Gustav can take you to him, if you like…”

Morgan Stark doesn’t agree right away, which is kind of surprising. She takes in the atmosphere in the room with keen, knowing eyes, stopping on Nat and Clint if only for a fraction of a second before quickly and efficiently packing the gear she’s been working with in a Dora the Explorer backpack and skipped towards the pair. One of the dire wolves (Sam knew they were Hydra crafted, but damn, they sure looked the part) moved with her, while the other two circled Tony’s workstation and made themselves comfortable there, guarding the billionaire’s secrets.

“Beregite sebya, dyadya Marik, dyadya Tyoma (Take care of yourselves, Uncle Marik, Uncle Tyoma),” was the last thing they heard from the her in near perfect Russian before she disappeared into the depths of the battleship corridor, while holding onto Gustav’s hand, and it makes every member of Yakov’s team tense up in a way that screamed ‘Achtung! (Attention!)’. And this got Sam thinking _again_…

“Negotiations? Who’s negotiating with who?!” Clint finds himself on the crossroads of everyone’s attention, turning his gaze from one Russian twin to the other. Marat, the one to answer, dangerously narrows his eyes:

“For a hero named Hawkeye, you sure have eye problems... who were we fighting the last hour and a half?”

“Who died and made _you_ my Boss?”

“Hear that, Tyomich? The archer punk is being cheeky! Maybe if we left them to drown, rot and freeze it would have done something for his manners?” Artyom on the background lets go of the helm, turns around and shows Clint the finger, a true cross-cultural gesture that one. Clint, like the grown-ass man he is, retaliated by showing the young man two with a little bit extra suggestive finger wiggling… and just like that the argument was about to escalate into an outright brawl.

“Guys? Come on, guys…” Sam tried defusing the conflict, because here and now was not the _time_, but a hand lands on his shoulder and stops him cold. It’s Steve, and he’s shaking his head, whispering a quiet:

“Don’t.”

“…why?”

“Look there,” he subtly nods towards the entrance, where Uncle Mitya is watching all this flea-circus unfold. The man who is usually a quiet, calm and _calming_ presence and you’ll think he’s always like this… until you’ve seen him be _mad_. His silent fury is almost palpable as it creeps through the room, and the sheer potency of it? It makes the short hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand up.

“You will _cease_ this foolish behavior… all of you!” he didn’t even need to raise his voice all that much to make both of the twins and Clint freeze. “Artemiy! Marat! Are you proud officers of the Soviet Union Navy… or are you two good for nothing hooligans who crawled out of the dusty Ukrainian steppes onto the doorstep of the Sevastopol Naval School?!”

“Low ranking…”

“А мне плевать! (I don’t care!)” roared Uncle Mitya, effectively cutting off any mumbling. “An officer is an officer! You shed blood, sweat and tears for that uniform – uphold its honor no matter how _insignificant_ it may seem!”

The sailor-twins visibly deflate. Marat tries scowling back, but it’s weak like he recognizes the truth, but for whatever reason can’t simply take it as it is, as if agreeing straight away will be a sign of… weakness?!

“…yes, sir.”

“Artemiy?”

“Yes… sir.”

“Good. As for you…” Uncle Mitya turns to Barton and Hawkeye unconsciously straightens up under his gaze like those few inches of extra-height are going to save him. “Your Director is waiting for you.”

“… o-kay?”

“Outside.”

“…fine?”

“So you came to pick us up?” asks Steve quietly. The older man nods curtly.

“Yes. You are among the last to join the others on the top deck. How are your hands, Mister Rogers?”

Steve looks down at his palms and even he can tell that his third degree burns were starting to look better, somewhere around the spectrum of _second degree_ burns. God, the super-soldier serum was amazing, but there were downsides even in this. There were still bits and pieces of armored gloves wedged in there, and somebody had to sit Cap down and spend a few hours over his wounds with a pair of tweezers.

“It hurts less… I think.”

“We have a med bay on board and you are welcome to use it… if you like.”

“Oh, you have a medic too?”

“No. But I ate a dog in wound treating.”

“Ate a… what?!”

“Figure of speech - pay it no mind…”

Outside it’s frosty and windy. They are in the middle of an iceberg island kept in relative balance by _Admiral Kuznetsov_ on one side, Mighty Mo on the other side and, ironically, the curled up sea monster on the third. The beast is watching tiny mortals run around in organized chaos with great and thoughtful interest, once in a while turning his majestic – one horn short, but still majestic – head in the direction of the great white wolf sitting back on its haunches on his left and hissing something guttural and multi-tonal. The wolf either grumbled back or produced a series of low rumbly barks. Interesting fact: the Asgardians, represented by Thor and Loki, who were standing well within hearing range, stared at the two grand beasts with identical expressions of ‘I have no idea what you just said’. And they say their patented Asgardian All-speak was omnipotent…

The Helicarrier is still in the air, suspended on three black gleaming pillars of magical sand. What was this costing Master Anwar to hold this mountain of metal and circuitry up and straight, while simultaneously conducting a potentially dangerous magic ritual? They’ll never know…

The giant Elemental Spirits and Asgardians weren’t the only ones down on the ice floor. Their - ha-ha - faction leaders chose an odd middle ground to duke it out… or what, exactly, were they trying to do with such sour faces? Director Fury, his right hand woman Maria Hill, a man wearing a winter parka over what looked like a high ranking officer jacket, and Yakov Zimin’s second in command, who was none other than the not-at-all-reformed Nazi tank brigade commander who didn’t give a flying fuck about, well, most things in life. The Russian aircraft carrier captain had little problems communicating with the former-but-not-reformed Nazi tank brigade commander - their people might have had one hell of a past, but when professionalism was needed, it was found. Director Fury, on the other hand, was not negotiating with ‘Hydra scum’… on principle. With Yakov (the _rehabilitated _‘Hydra scum’) he _would_ _have to_, because Yakov was _unavoidable_, but with some shady German dressed in stylish blacks and greys? No way, Jose…

When Sam notices the ethereal shimmer between the great wolf’s front paws, he can’t find it in himself to be surprised - too much has happened! The snow is white, the wolf is white… the half-transparent humanoid shape is white too.

He is not looking their way, though. His head is turned to the great greying bulk of the deceivingly dormant battleship and his entire posture is filled with _longing_. Sam can’t see his face - only the lower half of it is visible, because everything else is obscured by the steel helmet and artfully covered by white wolf fur. Was the fur made for the helmet or the helmet crafted for the furs - it was hard to tell, but it sure made the ghost look menacing, like one of those dog-headed beasts that were rumored to live in the East according to some Ancient scholars... one of a kind work.

Speaking about ghostly armor in general, Sam hadn’t seen anything like it: not in history books he liked to read on occasion, not in history shows that became quite popular thanks to guys from New Asgard. It is an interesting mix of Viking leathers and Roman style plating and chain-mail which _oddly_ reminded Falcon of armor that came out of Tony’s workshop, actually: Cap, Nat, even Clint.

“Oh… my… _God! _Is that a _ghost_?!” Hawkeye was not subtle.

“You were on board a haunted ship just now… and _this_ is what fazes you, Yastrebok (little hawk)?”

“Nat, come on… everybody is being mean to me, and now you too?”

“I’m not. It’s just funny.”

“Could you two pipe it down a notch?” Barnes pops up behind their backs like a shaggy specter, making both special agents start or, in Nat’s case, flinch. “Can’t hear no word they’re saying! And I would pretty much like to…”

Lieutenant Ivolgin, who was leaning on the railing beside Jurgen, Dima and the two wolves, gave James a long sideways look before snapping his fingers in a gesture that could be read as dismissive. Despite the biting cold that had them all huddling for warmth, the guy was rocking a thin white T-shirt with ripped off sleeves, black jeans that hugged everything they should, a pair of combat boots laced all the way up to the buckles and… nothing else that could have concealed that mess of cybernetic circuitry posing as the Russian’s spine. Recognizable Hydra style: inhuman augmentation installations leading to hideous scars, but this wasn’t everything that there was. Sam was surprised to see a blazing red star spread its silvery wings across his shoulders. One might think it was a tattoo, but after seeing a similar star on the tower of a Second World War era tank, he had only one word on the surface of his mind…

_Brand._

Some people cut themselves to forget. Ivolgin _clearly_ did it to remember.

When the Lieutenant performed the snap, the entire expanse of his back flashed like a Christmas tree… but only for a faction of a second.

“It would appear we have reached the Endgame, Herr SHIELD Director Fury,” proclaimed a screechy robotic voice from the right back pocket of Bucky’s jeans for all in the vicinity to hear; the voice, surprisingly, was very good at accent impersonation, so once the words started flowing all of them instantly recognized the impeccable politeness with a steel edge that made Rudolph Jager the Iron Kaiser. “And I have yet to see anything resembling Project ‘Wunderwaffe’ on that flying airstrip you have trouble fixing or was it silenced by _performance issues_?”

A pause and then Thor just roars with laughter. He understood the reference! Unfortunately, Fury did too.

“How much did he tell you?”

The German… does not answer, scrutinizing him in hollow silence instead. There is a certain tension in the straight line of his back and shoulders, a shadow that was whispering _wrong, wrong, wrong_ in constant litany. Sam feels those icy fingers on his spine again, tickling, because he has seen backs like these before… in Afghanistan, where men stare down mountain ridges for signs of ambushes days in and days out: they can’t see them, but instinct screams otherwise, pushing that familiar chorus of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ to the forefronts… and driving good men mad.

“Herr Stark told us… everything,” says Rudolph Jager at last, and it sounds like a signal, because Lieutenant Ivolgin all the way up on the ship deck plasters himself over the railing, eyes going alarmingly vacant with alarming speed. They hear the telling clicking sounds and Clint stares with eyes wide as saucers at the three anti-aircraft guns on this side of the ship coming to life… slowly… covertly…

“Well, that’s a shame… if he were a little bit duller, I wouldn’t have to do… _this!_”

What Fury was about to do, they never did find out, because the unexpected happened and the Iron Kaiser socked the SHIELD Director straight in the eye-patch. The jab was lightning fast, devilishly precise, never mind bold and it knocked the man down for the count. The knuckles of the German’s gloved fist were enclosed in faint golden hue from the small vile he dropped into the palm of his hand from a hidden compartment in his jacket sleeve mere seconds before the punch and _crushed_, activating whatever was inside.

Maria Hill lost precious seconds gaping at him in disbelief before going for her handgun… only to be stopped by the captain from _Admiral Kuznetsov_, who did a calculated half-step forward, and caught her gun hand by the wrist.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“Stop! And watch…”

Hill, grim as a reaper, reluctantly obliged, moving her gaze to the place where her boss was breathing through the aftershocks of the blow; Jager held back just enough to _not_ _kill_ the baseline human, but gentle he was not, so when Fury regained his footing and raised his head everybody was expecting to see a nasty shiner… but there was none.

No shiner, no eye-patch and, most importantly, _no scar_. Hill’s eyes grow wide, because she of all people knows what makes that injury so special, knows that it can’t be healed by any of the traditional or non-conventional means planet Earth can offer. The Russian captain lets go of her wrist, noticing the changes, even though he doesn’t understand the causes…

Jager’s lips curl in a predatory smile; it pulls on the scars on the right side of his face, making said smile positively fiendish.

“Welcome, my friend… we have been waiting…”

The smile is returned full force: just as predatory, just as fiendish and… Fury’s facial muscles were clearly not used to smiles like these. Ding-ding-ding - warning sign! What were they going to do with this info? God if Sam knew, and not because he was just a little screw within the well-oiled Avengers machine, but because the bulk of the Avengers had no fucking clue! And the Soldiers had no clue either, but _somehow_… they were prepared better. _Why_ were they prepared better?!

“No, you weren’t… but that’s okay. You’re so conveniently gathered here, in one place… the Earth’s mightiest heroes!” Fury-not-Fury struck a proud pose, which – again – made the man look like a kid trying his dad’s boots on for size. Only Hill was standing too close, and she had a pistol drawn. The man who impersonated her boss ended up at gun point faster than he could blink:

“_Who_ or _what_ are you?”

“I could tell you, but you all will be dead in a minute anyway... _ORM_!”

The bellow makes the sea dragon shudder and brace himself by curling into an even tighter ball, because, unlike them, meager mortals, he was well aware what the near future will bring and it will be pain and humiliation, because yes, that is what the incantation does: degrades him to the state of an animal. It burns, oh how it burns… worse than getting your scales ripped out, worse than living on scraps for centuries, worse than _The Jar_…

Orders that usually came after, no matter their contents and degree of sanity, were considered a relief and readily executed. But today, decided the sea spirit, this insidious cycle will end.

The order came like it usually did, barked out by the being holding his leash, compelling him to be a slave to wishes that weren’t his own. _Fight him_, said the Wolf, _fight him till you can’t fight anymore_. The spell work pulls on the invisible chains linking the great sea serpent to this angry hated _thing_ that is his current master…

Current…

Not forever.

***

The villain struck a dramatic pose, the forces of light tensed, expecting what usually comes after a villain’s speech… and nothing happens. The dragon doesn’t move. Something, probably, magic is bending him into pretzels. The beast even resorts to _biting his own tail_, only to stubbornly hold his ground beside the great white wolf who... rumbles at him in approval.

Sam from his perch stood flabbergasted, because… when did it turn into a conspiracy?!

“What… ORM? ORM! Move, gods damn you, destroy them!” pseudo-Fury is torn between anger and confusion. He quickly finds the man responsible, and it is, predictably, the closest one in sight. “What did you do to my dragon, you insect?!”

The captain of _Admiral Kuznetsov_ answered with a thin smile of his own.

“You pranced in here, causing climate imbalances and killing innocent people. If you thought we would have just let you do as you please, then you are either extremely near-sighted, or a fool…”

A flash of hatred, a burst of magic, and the carefully crafted and thought through camouflage cracks and falls off in uneven jagged pieces, revealing… revealing…

Sam expected something horrible, the last assault on New York still close to the front of his mind, but the alien standing in front of them wasn't so bad: white hair, pale skin, pointy elvish ears peeking through strands… pale eyes of a _savage…_

Loki bounced back first by startling the crap out of them with a sharp scream of:

"Dark Elf!"

And everything that was before - the naval battles, the Big Gun orchestra, the spirits tearing into each other and the ghostly viking – was suddenly degraded to child's play in the face of one pissed mage…


End file.
